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OF  CALIFORNIA 

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DEBATABLE  GROUND 


G.  B.  STERN 


NEW  YORK       ALFRED  •  A  •  KNOPF      MCMXXI 


C30PYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 
G.  B.  STERN 


This  book  has  been  published  and 
copyriffhted  in  England  under  the 
title  "Children  of  No  Man's  Ixind" 


Published,  January,  1921 
Second  Printing,  April,  1921 


PRINTED    IM    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


TO 

H.  G.  WELLS 


LIBRARY 


'  "What  is  love  of  one's  land?  .  .  . 

I  don't  know  very  well. 
It  is  something  that  sleeps  for  a  year,  for  a  day. 
For  a  month,  something  that  keeps 
Very  hidden  and  quiet  and  still, 
And  then  takes 
The  quiet  heart  like  a  wave, 
The  quiet  brain  like  a  spell, 

The  quiet  will 
Like  a  tornado,  and  that  shakes 
The  whole  being  and  soul  .  .  . 

Aye,  the  whole  of  the  soul." 

Ford  Madox  Hueffer 


PART  I 


CHAPTER   I 


L" 


<c"|"     ET  her  go,"  said  Ferdinand  Marcus.     "  I  want  my 
daughter  to  have  a  good  time." 

Aunt  Stella  assented.  "Why  shouldn't  she  go? 
Anything  for  a  change,  when  one  is  twenty-three.  Anything 
for  excitement.  And  she  can  come  to  no  harm.  Besides,  Rich- 
ard is  invited  too." 

"  No  harm,"  chirruped  her  brother.  "  Liberty  for  the 
young!  We  have  missed  enough,  Stella,  you  and  I,  through 
old-fashioned  prejudices." 

Old  Hermann  Marcus  did  not  join  in  the  conversation.  He 
sat  heavy  and  immovable;  his  faded  blue  eyes,  under  their 
fierce  ridges,  travelling  contemptuously  from  his  son  to  his 
daughter.  Weaklings !  short-sighted  weaklings,  with  their  fool- 
ish chatter  of  "  Liberty  for  the  young."  Was  this  the  way  to 
bring  up  one's  children,  with  authority  trailing  like  a  slack 
rope  along  the  floor?  What  was  to  become  of  the  old,  if  the 
young  were  allowed  to  live  for  their  own  pleasure?  Where 
would  he  be  now,  he,  Hermann  Marcus,  crippled  with  rheu- 
matism, financially  insolvent,  approaching  his  eightieth  birth- 
day, if  Ferdinand  and  Stella  had  not  been  trained,  very  care- 
fully trained,  to  unquestioning  obedience  and  duty? 

He  was  impotent  where  Ferdinand's  children  were  concerned. 
His  day  of  authority  was  over.  But  — "  a  good  time,"  he  mut- 
tered. "  They  will  see.  .  .  ."  He  called  loudly  to  Stella  to 
bring  him  at  once  the  English  papers,  which  would  not  arrive  at 
the  Swiss  hotel  for  fully  an  hour  yet.  Hermann  Marcus  was 
perfectly  aware  of  this. 

3 


4  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

II 

"  But  every  one  knows  for  a  positive  fact  that  Shakespeare  is 
the  greatest  writer  of  all.  Why,  who  has  ever  heard  of  your 
Goethe,  outside  Germany?  " 

"And  who  has  ever  read  your  Shakespeare,  inside  Eng- 
land? "  Lothar  retorted,  witli  the  horrid  glee  of  a  person  who 
has  made  a  remark  with  an  unpleasant  amount  of  truth  in  it. 
His  spectacles  gleamed,  two  round,  triumphant  dazzles  in  the 
sunset  which  streamed  through  the  closed  windows  of  his  study. 

Richard  repeated  stubbornly,  but  without  conviction: 
"  Every  one  knows  Shakespeare  is  the  greatest  writer."  His 
defence  of  Shakespeare  was  strictly  impersonal;  he  had  no 
vehement  sentiments  on  the  subject;  the  whole  argument  bored 
him.  But  on  principle,  when  a  German  boy  asserts  that 
Goethe  is  greater  than  Shakespeare,  the  English  boy  can  have 
no  option  but  to  make  reply  that  Shakespeare  is  greater  than 
Goethe. 

"  It  shall  be  decided  one  day,"  Lothar  grimaced  ominously. 

And  Richard  had  an  inspiration.  "  Shakespeare  has  been 
translated  into  German,  because  you  jolly  well  couldn't  get  on 
without  him.  I've  never  seen  Goethe  properly  put  into  Eng- 
lish.    That  about  proves  I'm  right." 

"  There  was  no  Englander  great  enough  to  translate  a  man 
so  great.  I  do  not  say,"  Lothar  explained  conscientiously, 
"that  I  have  not  of  the  works  of  your  Shakespeare  also  with 
much  benefit  an  exhaustive  study  made.  Let  us  converse  on 
them.     Do  you  then  prefer  Macbess  or  Otello?  " 

"  Macbeth,"  Richard  muttered  at  a  venture,  and  walked  rest- 
lessly to  the  window;  fidgeted  with  the  beaded  blind-cord,  to 
signify  that  he  expected  better  entertainment  from  his  host 
than  this  irritating  controversy.  He  wished  his  sister  had  not 
been  so  quick  to  accept  Mrs.  Koch's  invitation  to  visit  her  at 
Dorzheim.  To  be  dragged  away  in  the  middle  of  the  extra  July 
of  smnmer  holiday  which  an  epidemic  of  scarlet  fever  at  school 
had  procured  him;  dragged  away  from  a  jolly  hotel  in  Switzer- 
land, to  this  stupid,  little,  dead-and-alive  German  town;  finally, 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  5 

to  be  expected  to  chum  up  with  Lothar  von  Relling,  merely  be- 
cause they  were  "  of  the  same  age  " —  it  was  a  bit  thick! 

Deb  could  quite  well  have  come  alone,  if  this  was  her  idea  of 
enjoyment. 

He  wondered  why  Lothar  was  crossing  and  uncrossing  his 
legs  in  their  bright  striped  stockings,  and  breathing  heavily  as 
though  about  to  unburden  himself  of  a  confidence. 

"  Have  you  a  heart's  dearest,  you?  " 

Richard  Marcus  was  fifteen.  A  normal  boy,  muscular,  pug- 
nacious, taciturn.  The  question  drew  from  him  a  shout  of 
laughter. 

"  What  should  I  do  with  one,  if  I  had  it?  " 

"  You  English  boys  are  babies  all,"  Lothar  said,  unexpect- 
edly scornful.  "You  play  always  your  stupid  games,  rather 
than  write  verses  to  the  loved  one.  Ach,  but  she  .  .  ."  he 
whirled  his  hearer  along  an  incoherent  tide  of  description:  "  a 
wonder,  a  dream,  a  night  of  scented  dusk,"  that  mysterious  god- 
dess who  seemed  but  recently  to  have  emerged  from  the  nebu- 
lous glamour  which  encircles  all  womanhood  for  the  Teuton  yet 
in  his  teens. 

"Are  you  engaged  to  her?  "  yawned  Richard,  who  by  the 
merest  fraction  preferred  these  confidences  to  the  Goethe- 
Shakespeare  debate. 

"  Betrothed  ?  But  not  possible.  I  am  already  betrothed  to 
Frieda-Marie.     Our  peoples  betrothed  us  a  great  many  years 

ago.     It  is  wearisome,  but "  Lothar  shrugged  his  plump 

shoulders  — "  it  is  suitable.  We  are  of  one  faith.  Her  father, 
the  Herr  Sanitats-Rath  HaufFe,  will  withdraw  his  sanction  if  he 
outfinds  anything  of  my  faithlessness." 

Richard  swung  round  and  surveyed  with  disfavour  Lothar's 
vague  features  under  their  bush  of  upstanding  tow.  "  Do  you 
mean  there's  really  anything  for  him  to  find  out  about  you 
and  the  other  girl,  or  are  you  swanking?  " 

"  Only  that  I  schwarm  —  I  swarm  with  love  for  her.  I 
watch  in  the  streets,  and  once  I  drop  at  her  feet  a  fair  rose  cost- 
ing fifty  pfennig.  She  knows  nothing  of  my  passion.  But 
what  goes  me  that  on?     It  is  more  beautiful,  more  ideal,  so." 


6  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

Suddenly  he  slid  from  lofty  altitudes.  "  One  has  also  one's 
emotions  away  from  these.  One  is  flesh.  One  is  not  altogether 
air.  .  .  ."  He  spattered  a  few  inky  hints  regarding  the  de- 
mands of  his  adolescence.  From  a  pink,  chubby  face  his  spec- 
tacles glittered  knowingly,  inviting  his  companion  to  betrayal 
of  like  perplexities.  But  Richard  preserved  that  admirable 
stolidity  for  which  his  looks  were  so  well  adapted:  powerful 
jaw,  big  nose,  dark  head  well  thrust  forward  from  the  short 
neck  and  broad  shoulders;  and,  rather  obscured  by  all  these 
pugnacities,  a  pair  of  pleasant,  humorous  light-grey  eyes,  from 
which  now,  however,  he  had  chased  all  expression  save  of  blank 
idiocy.  Not  likely  he  would  give  himself  away  to  Master 
Lothar!  Richard  wondered  if  there  were  a  German  boy  good 
form  enough  to  know  that  Lothar  was  bad  form,  and  to  ostra- 
cize him  as  such.  Unlikely;  the  fellow  would  hardly  be  as 
cocksure  if  he  had  once  been  put  in  his  place.  All  this  blither 
about  Goethe  and  girls.  ..."  Do  you  mean  to  marry  this  per- 
son? "  interrupting  the  other's  critical  appraisement  of  a  lady 
professionally  well-known  in  Dorzheim,  appraisement  to  which 
Lothar  had  essayed  to  impart  the  personal  note. 

"  I  have  explained,"  patiently,  "  I  am  plighted  to  Frieda- 
Marie.  She  is  a  good  Christian  maiden.  She  learns  cooking. 
She  has  a  respectable  gift-along.     Why  do  you  smile?  " 

"  Your  English  is  so  funny." 

"  I  have  not  yet  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  your  German," 
politely  sarcastic.  For  Richard  had  felt  in  honour  bound  not 
to  reveal  to  Dorzheim  that  his  knowledge  of  their  tongue, 
though  faulty,  was  fluent  enough,  as  was  natural  in  a  grandson 
of  Hermann  Marcus  of  Munich. 

"  I  will  take  me  a  wife  when  I  am  twenty-seven.  First  must 
I  be  through  with  my  examinations.  Then  do  I  perform  my 
military  service.     You  also?     No?  " 

"  Oh,  we  don't  have  to  fag  with  that  sort  of  thing  in  Eng- 
land." 

"  It  is  for  the  Fatherland.  Also  one  is  attractive  in  uniform. 
One  dashes.  One  lives.  Me,  I  must  betray  a  several  of  maid- 
ens before  I  can  afford  one  to  keep." 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  7 

Richard  scowled  discouragement.  "  You're  not  sixteen  yet, 
are  you?  " 

"At  sixteen  one  is  no  longer  a  child.  One  cannot  go 
mad  .  .  ."  To  Richard's  horror,  Lothar  suddenly  buried  his 
head  in  his  arms,  shuddering  violently.  ..."  That  I  were 
dead !  that  I  were  dead !  "  he  moaned. 

The  English  boy  stared  at  him.  These  outbursts  of  con- 
fidence, alternately  sentimental  and  morbid,  seemed  to  empha- 
size his  growing  sense  of  having  been  brought  into  a  world 
completely  alien.  He  sent  a  swift  thought  to  his  chum,  Gre- 
ville  Dunne,  now  on  board  a  training-ship;  wished  old  Greville 
were  here.  Foreign  kids  were  unbalanced,  hysterical;  they 
read  too  much;  brooded  too  much;  talked  too  much.  .  .  . 
Lothar  had  no  right  to  unburden  himself  to  a  stranger,  of  differ- 
ent nationality  and  hostile  outlook.  Richard  began  to  be 
afraid  he  had  given  an  impression  of  too  ready  sympathy. 

Lothar  raised  his  head  and  announced  solemnly:  "  Swine- 
hound  that  I  am,  believe  that  I  preserve  a  reverence  supreme 
for  my  Loved  One!  "  His  eyes  were  swamped  in  facile  tears. 
"  I  have  no  father,"  he  added,  after  an  imcomfortable  pause; 
"  and  you,  you  have  no  mother,  I  hear." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,  thanks,"  Richard's  shoulders  were  ex- 
pressive of  sullen  embarrassment.     "  Got  a  stamp  collection?  " 

"  I  will  show  you  my  botany-box."  And  Lothar  littered  the 
blue  and  red  check  table-cloth  with  his  specimens  of  pressed 
leaves  and  flowers,  neatly  labelled.  Presently  he  reverted  to 
the  subject  of  Frieda-Marie.  It  appeared  as  though  he  were 
trying  unsuccessfully  to  tell  Richard  something.  .  .  . 

"  Pity  that  she  should  be  so  blonde.  The  Ideal  One  is  a  bru- 
nette. She  is  a  witch;  a  black  velvet  pansy.  Hark,  I  will  de- 
scribe her  to  you." 

A  full  five  minutes  elapsed,  however,  before  Richard  awoke 
to  the  fact  that  the  concrete  sum  of  Lothar's  lyrical  ecstasies 
made  up  a  personality  closely  resembling  that  of  his  sister. 

"Good  Lord!     Deb!" 

"  But  at  last !  Since  an  hour  have  I  tried  to  reach  your  un- 
derstanding." 


8  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

**  Couldn't  you  say  straight  out  that  you  meant  Deb,  instead 
of  making  an  inventory  of  her?  " 

This  was  too  great  a  strain  on  Lothar's  English.  "  She  was 
mine  from  the  first  moment  I  saw  her  feet  on  the  pavement  my 
window  outside  press,"  he  breathed. 

"Look  here  —  d'you  want  to  marry  Deb?  " 

"  You  come  me  always  with  that !  "  peevishly.  "  I  tell  you 
I  am  betrothed  to  Frieda-Marie.  I  cannot  marry  your  sister. 
She  is  only  a  Jewess." 

"  I  like  your  cheek!     Then  what's  the  good  of  you?  " 

"  I  can  worship  her." 

"Umph!" 

"  You  also,  you  admire  her?  " 

"  She's  not  so  dusty." 

Again  Lothar  had  to  confess  himself  vanquished.  He  lugged 
down  an  English-German  dictionary  from  the  shelf,  and  con- 
scientiously looked  up  "  dusty." 

"  Nicht  so  staubig  —  ach !  .  .  .  Hark,  there  is  Mamma  who 
calls  us.     Doubtless  you  are  fetched  to  go  home." 

They  ran  down  the  polished  stairs,  Richard  grinning  at  the 
notion  of  being  "  fetched." 

In  the  drawing-room  Felix  Koch  was  apologizing  profusely 
for  his  wife's  absence,  while  Frau  von  Relling  plied  him  with 
coffee  and  cream  cakes  and  delicatessen  sandwiches. 

"  You  will  be  welcome  whenever  you  come  again  to  play  with 
my  Lothar,"  she  condescended  to  Richard.  Then  sighed  heav- 
ily :  "  My  big  boy !  "  and  took  Lothar's  hand  and  fondled  it. 
Lothar  received  the  caress  with  an  expression  which  was  decor- 
ously demure.     "Smug  little  humbug!  "  reflected  Richard. 

"  Indeed,  Herr  Koch,  it  is  well  that  the  dear  Marianna  did 
not  call  to-day,  as  it  is  possible  that  your  honoured  Frau 
Mamma  might  be  drinking  coffee  with  me  presently." 

"  So?  "  Koch  nodded  gloomily.  His  wife  and  his  mother 
were  not  on  speaking  terms;  and  all  the  town  knew  why.  He 
had  committed  an  unprecedented  folly  in  marrying  the  pretty 
daughter  of  a  shopkeeper  in  Bingen. 

Frau  von  Relling  continued :    "  Doubtless  the  dear  Marianna 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  9 

is  busy  with  the  entertainment  of  the  little  English  Miss." 
Then  eagerly:    "  Has  she  received  any  offers  yet?  " 

"  She  has  only  been  with  us  three  days,"  Koch  replied.  And 
added  with  a  mysterious  inflection,  "  But  Salzmann  has  sent  to 
Frankfurt  for  his  brother." 

"  And  how  many  bouquets?  " 

"  Eleven.     And  two  chocolate-boxes." 

"Has  Herr  Sigismund  Koch  shown  her  a  little  attention?  " 

The  man  bent  upon  his  questioner  a  look  of  displeasure. 
"  Sigismund  knows  well  he  has  no  concern  with  any  young  Miss 
who  is  my  guest!  " 

For,  though  partners  in  the  same  bank,  he  and  his  younger 
brother  were  not  on  speaking  terms.  They  had  quarrelled  vio- 
lently a  little  while  before  the  death  of  their  father,  Emil  Koch, 
founder  of  the  bank,  who,  with  more  sense  of  humour  than 
can  usually  be  accredited  to  his  nation,  had  left  it  to  them  as  a 
joint  and  firmly-knit  inheritance. 

Frau  von  Belling  hastened  to  cover  up  her  intentional  piece 
of  malice.  "  Of  course  not,  of  course  not.  And  the  dear  Mari- 
anna  will  be  arranging  a  Klatsch  to  introduce  the  beautiful  Miss 
to  Dorzheim?  " 

"  Next  Thursday;  you  will  honour  us ?  " 

"  Will  Wanda  be  present?  "  Frau  von  Belling  played  nerv- 
ously with  her  son's  fingers,  which  she  still  retained. 

"  I  believe  your  Fraulein  sister-in-law  has  been  invited, 
but " 

"  In  that  case "     Frau  von  Belling  rose  with  dignity. 

She  was  not  on  speaking  terms  with  her  sister-in-law :  a  question 
of  a  funeral-wreath.  .  .  .  Amid  such  complications  did  the 
society  of  Dorzheim  walk  precariously. 

Felix  gave  a  murmur  which  placed  his  sympathies  definitely 
on  the  side  of  Frau  von  Belling,  and  at  the  same  time  deplored 
these  needless  feuds  in  an  otherwise  attached  family.  Then 
with  Bichard  he  took  formal  leave. 

"  We  are  the  only  Jews  in  Dorzheim  with  whom  the  von 
Rellings  have  traffic,"  he  remarked,  as  they  walked  home 
through  the  little  manufacturing  town.     "  But  you  will  count 


10  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

now  how  many  hats  are  raised  to  me.  The  Kochs  have  ever 
been  deeply  respected  even  among  the  Christians  who  bank 
with  us."  He  beamed  with  naive  pleasure  at  each  salutation; 
and  looked  sharply  at  Richard  to  see  if  the  latter  were  indeed 
taking  note. 

Twilight  in  the  streets;  and  the  sky  was  a  dark,  thick  blue. 
Crowds  of  men  were  already  jostling  out  of  the  workshops 
where  the  cutting,  polishing  and  setting  of  precious  stones 
formed  the  principal  industry  of  Dorzheim.  Swarthy  giants 
from  some  legend  of  forest  and  charcoal  and  red-glowing  cav- 
ern, they  did  not  immediately  disperse,  but  stood  about  mutter- 
ing on  the  pavements,  with  a  scowl  for  the  passer-by  who 
brushed  their  group  too  closely.  Somewhere  a  great  brazen 
bell  was  clanging.     It  was  all  rather  unreal.  .  .  . 

"  We  shall  shortly  have  trouble  with  these  fellows,"  re- 
marked the  banker  to  Richard.  "  Those  infernal  socialists  with 
their  talk " 

Richard  was  again  attacked  by  a  melancholy  sense  of  com- 
plete isolation  from  his  surroundings.  What  was  he  doing 
here?  He,  Marcus,  of  the  Winborough  fifth  —  in  this  gabled, 
German  burgher  town,  grotesque  to  him  as  an  old  steel-en- 
graving in  a  musty  folio.  Ring  of  sombre  fir-shaggy  hills 
tipped  against  the  sky;  ornamental  bridges  like  toys  across  the 
river,  which  ran  alongside  the  one  broad  street;  warm  aroma  of 
coff"ee  from  the  shops,  blending  with  a  mournful  resinous 
fragrance  that  drifted  down  v»rith  the  wind  from  the  woods; 
clusters  of  people  round  the  small  iron  tables  dotted  outside 
the  restaurants;  and  behind  the  large  open  windows  of  these, 
dim  groups  sprawling  through  a  dense  smoke-heavy  atmos- 
phere; chatter  and  bellow  and  screech;  gibberish  which  was 
yet  disconcertingly  comprehensive  to  Richard.  He  revolted 
against  his  very  understanding  of  their  language.  They  were 
not  his  people;  Lothar,  with  his  flaxen  hair  and  his  botany-box 
and  his  repellant  morbidity;  this  trotting  little  man,  counting 
the  hats  that  were  raised  —  ah,  there  was  another !  .  .  .  and 
another!  .  .  .  like  clockwork,  up  went  the  hand  to  the  brim. 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  11 

.  .  .  Three  elongated  boys  in  capes,  whistling  "  Die  Wacht  am 
Rhein  "— 

"Lieb  Vaterland,  kannst  ruhig  sein. 
Still  steht  und  treu — " 

No,  these  were  not  his  people;  this  was  not  his  land.  Richard 
stiffened  himself  against  any  insidious  process  of  adaptation 
to  circumstances.  Daisybanks,  Lansdowne  Terrace,  London, 
England  —  that  was  his  address,  when  he  was  not  at  Winbor- 
ough.  Good  enough  for  him.  Switzerland  was  all  right,  of 
course  .  .  .  the  hotel  was  under  English  management,  and  one 
just  went  about  with  one's  own  set,  and  behaved  much  as  usual, 
except  that  there  were  mountains.  His  spirit  approved  of  a 
Continent  moulded  on  sternly  British  lines. 

And  then  Deb  had  dragged  him  into  —  this ! 

A  question  stirred  in  his  mind !  Nationality  —  was  it  a  fact 
of  any  importance,  then,  to  make  so  much  difference  when  put 
to  the  test?  ...  He  shoved  the  question  away  again.  Why 
fuss?  This  sort  of  misery  —  for  it  was  misery  —  would  not 
pursue  him  further  than  across  the  map  of  Germany.  Let  him 
get  back  to  his  own  folk;  he  was  homesick,  that  was  all.  Eng- 
land became  above  all  desirable  as  a  place  where  you  were  jolly 
and  ordinary;  took  things  for  granted;  no  need  to  think;  — 
there  was  a  quality  of  purposeful  concentration  about  these 
German  people  that  oppressed  Richard  uneasily;  why  were 
they  so  absorbed  and  ponderous  over  the  minutest  detail? 

Again  Herr  Koch  jerked  off  his  hat.  "  Did  you  see  who 
saluted  me?  No  other  than  Sanitats-Rath  Maximilian  Hauffe. 
He  could  quite  well  have  pretended  not  to  see  me;  there  was 
no  lamp  where  he  passed  us.  But  I  tell  you  the  Kochs  are  es- 
teemed in  Dorzheim.  That  was  his  daughter  Frieda-Marie 
along  with  him." 

Richard  looked  back,  interested  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Lo- 
thar's  betrothed.  She  looked  back  at  the  same  time.  ...  A 
plump  rosy  face;  swing  and  dangle  of  two  golden  plaits. 

Outside  the  door  of  their  house  they  were  joined  by  Mrs. 


.12  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

Koch  and  Deborah.  Felix  inserted  his  latchkey  and  preceded 
them  into  the  hall. 

"  Na,  was  Frau  Ladenberg  amiable?  Did  you  like  her?  " 
he  inquired  of  Deb. 

"  Not  —  not  very  much." 

"Not?     But  she  is  English;  she  is  your  countrywoman." 

With  infinite  pains  and  pride  had  this  sole  Englishwoman  in 
Dorzheim  been  excavated  for  the  girl's  benefit.  Deb  felt 
acutely  the  reproach  in  his  tones.  The  meeting  ought  to  have 
been  at  least  as  momentous  as  that  of  Stanley  and  Livingstone 
in  the  desert.  Deb  herself,  after  only  three  days  spfent  in 
thickly  Teutonic  company,  had  been  quite  excited  at  the  pros- 
pect of  drinking  coffee  with  Herr  Ladenberg's  wife  from  Man- 
chester. She  recognized  now  how  unreasonable  she  had  been 
to  have  expected  instant  affinity  merely  on  the  negative  grounds 
that  neither  she  nor  Elly  Ladenberg  happened  to  be  German. 

At  the  same  moment,  Marianna  was  enquiring  of  Richard: 
"  Well,  and  have  you  made  a  great  friendship  with  Lothar  von 
Belling?  " 

"  No,"  said  Richard,  who  invariably  curtailed  speech  to  its 
utmost  brevity. 

"  No  ?     But  you  are  almost  of  the  same  age !  " 

Richard  grunted,  and  escaped  to  his  room  to  dress  for  that 
meal  which,  neither  dinner,  tea,  nor  supper,  mingled  the  rich- 
ness and  biliousness  of  all  three. 

Felix  went  into  the  sitting-room  and  flung  himself  on  the 
sofa.  Deb  and  his  wife  followed  him  in.  The  girl  went 
straight  to  the  window,  and  with  some  difficulty  succeeded  in 
opening  it;  the  decent  German  window  protesting  loudly,  as  it 
had  every  right  to  do.  She  leant  out,  cooling  her  hot  cheeks. 
She  had  behaved  disgracefully  that  afternoon.  .  .  . 

Marianna  Koch  glanced  at  her.  Then  at  Felix.  An  elusive 
meanness  flickered  from  her  narrow  light-brown  eyes;  at  the 
comers  of  her  pretty,  fretful  mouth.  She  was  very  unlike  the 
accepted  Saxon  type  of  large  blonde  beauty.  There  had  been  a 
scandalous  babble  of  tongues  in  Dorzheim  when  Felix  Koch 
had  first  brought  her  back  from  a  brief  holiday  he  had  spent 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  13 

in  Bingen.  Little  worldling  that  she  was,  she  had  yet  contrived 
to  trap  hir.1  in  manner  incongruously  reminiscent  of  a  Grimm's 
fairy -tale.  The  broad  window  above  the  iron-monger's  shop; 
the  wistful  maiden,  youngest  of  three  sisters,  who  daily  sta- 
tioned herself  there,  hairbrush  held  in  her  hand,  a  light-brown, 
feathery  cloud  surrounding  her  pale  face.  .  .  .  He  was  cured 
of  his  infatuation  now,  after  two  years'  subjection,  but  could 
still  recall  it  with  painful  vividness  at  a  thought  flung  back- 
wards to  that  window  and  the  magic  it  had  framed  for  him. 
Marianna!  .  .  .  but  she  was  common  and  petty,  and  snobbish 
and  quarrelsome;  she  had  married  him  solely  because  he  was 
a  banker,  a  fine  gentleman.  He  had  a  suspicion  lately  that 
she  would  like  to  be  rid  of  him;  yes,  now,  when  he  had  barely 
placated  a  bitterly  offended  mother;  when,  with  his  reputation 
for  sobriety  and  prudence,  he  had  made  a  fool  of  himself  in 
sight  of  all  Dorzheim.  If  it  had  been  Sigismund!  ...  It  was 
a  constant  smart  to  the  vanity  of  Felix  that  Sigismund  was  still 
highly  eligible,  whereas  he 

He  was  not  even  sure  that  his  wife  was  not  deceiving  him. 

In  which  case  Sigismund  would  laugh.  And  Herr  Sanitats- 
Rath  Hauffe  would  perhaps  omit  to  raise  his  hat  as  punctil- 
iously. 

Koch's  eyes  wandered  to  Deb,  in  her  bluish  lilac  crepe  dress; 
harem  skirt  that  clung  as  though  in  well-cut  adoration  .  .  . 
the  nape  of  her  neck  showed  astoundingly  bare;  in  Dorzheim 
it  was  considered  smart  to  wear  something  called  a  jabot,  and 
to  prop  the  chin  and  ears  with  a  high  erection  of  lace  and 
whalebone;  in  Dorzheim  the  dressmakers  were  commissioned 
to  destroy  line,  not  create  it  —  as  in  the  case  of  a  harem  skirt. 
She  was  obviously  not  quite  "  good  class  "  this  girl;  probably 
some  sort  of  an  artist,  though  he  had  gathered  her  people  were 
wealthy.  "These  English!" — one  could  account  for  every- 
thing by  that  contemptuous  phrase.  .  .  .  And  Deb  had  im- 
mensely gratified  him  that  morning  at  breakfast  by  remarking: 
"  One  might  easily  mistake  you  for  an  Englishman,  Herr 
Koch!  "...  Yes,  he  liked  the  girl;  was  quite  glad  that  Mari- 
anna had  taken  a  fancy  to  her  recently  in  Switzerland,  and  had 


14  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

insisted  on  bringing  her  back  for  a  visit.  It  relieved  the  ten- 
sion of  their  constant  bickering;  and  it  gave  him  a  hearer  on 
whom  to  impress  his  status  in  Dorzheim.  Then,  too,  one  ac- 
quired importance  in  the  little  town,  when  one  had  guests  from 
England.  Relations  from  Frankfurt,  yes  —  but  guests  from 
England  were  almost  unheard  of. 

And  nobody  need  know  that  Marianna  had  practically  run 
away  from  him  to  Montreux.  She  was  anaemic,  needed  a  holi- 
day; that  sufficed  for  public  explanation.  He  had  recalled  her 
with  a  promise  of  a  fur  coat.  He  had  not  yet  given  her  the 
fur  coat. 

"  I  can  smell  Rindbraten,"  remarked  Felix  appreciatively, 
from  the  sofa.  "  Do  we  have  it  for  evening-eating?  Stuffed? 
There  was  some  left  over  from  mid-day,  was  there  not?  I 
trust,  Marianchen,  that  you  made  it  clear  to  Emma  it  was  not 
for  her?  " 

He  was  smitten  with  gloom  at  the  thought  of  the  servant 
browsing  over  his  Rindbraten.  His  wife  reassured  him.  And 
she  added,  with  slow  emphasis :  "  I  tried  on  some  sable  coats  at 
Elly  Ladenberg's.  Her  husband  had  sent  for  sample  styles 
from  Koln.  There  was  one  —  four  thousand  marks.  It  hung 
well  on  me.  The  Ladenberg  has  already  chosen  another  with 
a  fox  collar.     Mine  has  a  brocade  lining." 

"  Yours?  "  Felix  chaffed  her.  "  Ei,  ei,  how  quickly  we  go. 
It  is  now  svunmer." 

"  That  is  the  time  for  a  good  bargain  in  fur." 

"  Four  thous£md  marks  is  too  much." 

"  Not  for  the  best." 

"  My  mother  says " 

"Your  mother  hates  me.  She  would  like  to  see  me  wear 
cotton  in  a  snowstorm.  She  would  die  of  spite  if  she  saw  the 
Frau  Sanitats-Rath  Maximilian  Hauffe  envying  me  my  beauti- 
ful sables." 

She  paused  to  see  if  her  last  artful  thrust  at  his  besetting 
weakness  had  at  all  moved  her  husband.  He  thundered,  to 
hide  his  uneasiness :  "  I  tell  you,  four  thousand  marks  is  too 
much.     You  are  beggaring  me.     You!  " 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  15 

The  woman's  eyes  grew  larger  and  brighter.  She  smiled 
at  Deb,  who  was  trying  to  slip  from  the  room  unperceived. 
"  But  where  are  you  going?  Felix,  the  child  is  running  away 
because  she  thinks  we  are  quarrelling." 

Felix  laughed  unroariously  at  the  notion. 

"  I  was  going  to  lie  down  before  supper,"  Deb  explained 
quickly.     "  I'm  rather  tired." 

"  There  is  no  couch  in  your  room.  Here,  you  had  better 
to  rest  beside  my  husband.  Make  room  for  her  then,  clumsy 
bear!  "  She  laughed  a  sharp  little  trill.  "How  shocked  she 
is!  Heavens,  what  have  I  asked  her  to  do?  Surely  with  a  re- 
spectable old  married  man.  .  .  .  Come,  Felix,  be  a  little  gal- 
lant. Our  English  Miss  is  afraid  of  you.  Na,  she  was  bold 
enough  this  afternoon,  having  a  fine  flirt  with  Meester  von 
Sittart." 

"  She  thinks  you  are  another  jealous  Huldah  von  Sittart, 
Marianna.  Did  that  old  woman  make  ugly  grimaces  at  you, 
Fraulein  Deb?  We  must  be  careful  where  there  are  handsome 
husbands  from  America.  But  with  old  Felix  Koch  —  Come,  I 
will  be  asleep,  that  will  put  you  at  your  ease."  He  rolled 
over  with  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  affected  to  snore  loudly. 

Marianna  applauded  the  performance.  Her  teasing  eyes 
informed  Deb  that  she  was  a  stiff  little  fool,  putting  a  wholly 
idiotic  construction  on  what  was  merely  playful  friendliness  on 
the  part  of  her  host  and  hostess.  So  Deb  lay  down  beside 
Felix.  ...  It  struck  her  suddenly  that  the  wife  has  the  su- 
preme advantage  over  the  girl  in  almost  any  conjunction  of 
circumstances. 

Frau  Koch  moved  to  the  door.  "  Sleep  well,  dear  chil- 
dren 1  "  It  was  uttered  in  the  mock-solemn  spirit  of  a  benison. 
But  Deb  was  aware  of  malice  in  the  woman's  stealthy  little 
smile;  more  than  malice  —  enmity.  To  her  or  to  Felix?  — 
She  would  have  sprung  upright  again,  save  for  the  feeling  that 
in  lying  down  she  had  committed  herself  ...  to  what,  she  did 
not  know.  But  she  did  know  very  definitely,  as  the  door 
closed  gently  behind  Marianna,  that  she  had  made  a  mistake, 
and  that  it  was  useless  to  try  and  repair  it.     Deb  was  to  suffer 


16  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

all  her  life  from  an  illusion  that  one  step  backward  would  not 
avail  her  after  one  step  forward  had  already  been  taken. 

.  .  .  Felix  had  his  back  still  turned  to  her.  But  he  had 
abandoned  the  farcical  pretence  of  snoring.  They  could  not 
lie  much  longer  in  this  absurd  silence,  back  to  back,  solemn, 
motionless.  .  .  .  Deb  began  to  laugh  softly.  It  was  really 
rather  ridiculous,  except  —  except  that  Marianna's  face  had 
frightened  her. 

Should  she  jump  up  now  —  and  run?  No,  that  would  give 
alarming  point  to  the  situation.  Probably  Felix  had  no  in- 
tentions   

He  turned  sharply,  pulled  her  round  towards  him,  kissed  her 
and  kissed  her.     And  he  was  thinking:    "  If  this  was  what  Ma- 

rianna  wanted,  then  there  and  there  —  and  there "     The 

girl  did  not  matter.  She  was  not  like  a  German  Madchen  who 
has  been  nicely  brought  up  and  carefully  guarded  for  matri- 
mony. Her  people  had  let  her  come  here,  to  complete  strang- 
ers. And  she  wore  collarless  blouses  and  had  flirted  conspic- 
uously with  von  Sittart. 

.  .  .  Her  throat  —  how  long  and  thick  and  dusky  white  .  .  . 
what  a  firm  column  for  that  three-cornered,  weary  little  face. 

Marianna  was,  he  felt  sure,  just  outside  the  closed  door. 
What  was  her  motive  in  all  this?  That  when  it  came  to  it, 
when  he  found  her  out,  she  should  also  have  an  accusing  finger 
to  point?  — "  Can  you  wonder,  my  friends?  First  he  does  not 
give  me  a  fur  coat,  and  then  he  makes  shameless  love  to  the 
guest  under  my  roof.  .  .  ." 

Felix  Koch  was  pale  with  anger  and  humiliation.  While 
he  had  joined  his  wife  in  chaffing  Deb,  he  had  been  inclined  to 
shout  aloud:  "  Who  is  the  man?  Who  is  he?  What  do  you 
think  I  am  made  of,  forcing  this  upon  me?  — After  you  have 
been  six  weeks  in  Switzerland  away  from  me  —  and  yesterday 
you  were  tired  after  the  j  ourney  —  too  tired !  .  .  .  and  I  —  and 
I.  .  .  .  Now,  this  insult!  " 

He  had  controlled  himself,  curious  to  see  what  she  would 
do  next.  He  was  not  going  to  control  himself  any  more.  Let 
Marianna,  if  indeed  she  stood  poised  on  tiptoe,  just  outside, 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  17 

her  light  eyes  flickering  spitefully,  let  Marianna  realize  how 
little  he  cared  for  her  rebuffs,  last  night,  and  the  night  before. 
.  .  .  Fur  coats?  Wives  did  not  get  fur  coats  unless  they 
earned  them  better. 

Deb  did  not  try  to  break  away  from  the  cramping  pressure 
of  his  arms.  She  recognized  that  she  had  been  to  blame; 
had  been  —  careless,  somewhere,  she  was  not  quite  sure  where. 
But  she  too  had  now  a  dim  sense  of  Marianna's  object  in 
inviting  her,  of  Marianna's  pinched  smile  outside  the  door. 

.  .  .  This  man  was  rather  handsome,  viewed  from  the  close 
range  which  usually  brings  distortion  of  features.  She  tried  to 
laugh  under  his  stinging  kisses,  to  pick  up  the  spirit  of  bur- 
lesque where  they  had  dropped  it.  .  .  .  "  Pretty  child,"  he 
muttered ;  "  pretty  neck  —  no  wonder  she  leaves  it  always  un- 
clothed." 

"  Herr  Koch  —  you  promised  —  I  said  I  wanted  to  rest " 

"  Felix,  then." 

*'  I  want  to  rest,  Felix "  She  took  advantage  of  a  mo- 
mentary relaxation  of  his  arms,  to  snuggle  down  into  the 
cushions,  as  a  baby  might;  to  close  her  eyes  with  a  semblance 
of  trustful  drowsiness  .  .  .  her  lips  were  half  parted,  her 
breathing  regular;  one  curled-up  fist  pushed  against  her  cheek. 
At  any  moment  she  might  just  drop  off  to  sleep.  .  .  . 

Would  he  leave  her  alone  now?  Was  she  safe  under  this 
guise  of  silly,  innocent  confidence?  Any  sophisticated  recog- 
nition of  his  attempt  to  start  a  surreptitious  affair  with  her, 
would  have  been  fatal. 

Felix  Koch,  like  all  South  Germans,  was  a  sentimentalist. 
Church  spires  by  moonlight,  or  a  slumbering  infant,  were 
unfailing  bell-pulls  to  his  softer  nature.  Gently  he  touched 
her  hair  with  his  fingers.  "  Sleep  then,  pretty  child,  there  is 
nothing  to  fear,"  he  murmured,  profoundly  moved  by  this 
self-evidence  of  the  rake's  reverence  for  purity.  It  was  all 
the  easier  to  assume,  since  he  did  not  really  care  for  Deb. 

Deb  thought:  "And  so  one  must  love  a  man,  to  like  being 
kissed  by  him?  ...  Or  is  it  only  because  he  is  married  that 
I  can't  like  it?  " 


18  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

She  had  been  in  love,  of  course;  not  the  conventional  once 
and  once  only,  but  twice.  A  glamorous  episode  with  a  young 
Territorial  Captain,  Con  Rothenburg,  eldest  son  of  her  father's 
partner.  And  later  on,  a  man  whose  age  doubled  hers:  the 
doctor  who  had  taken  over  the  practice  while  the  Marcus'  old 
family  practitioner  went  round  the  world  for  his  health.  This 
was  a  less  complete  attachment  than  with  Con,  for  Doctor 
Steele  was  not  even  aware  of  her  tremulous  passion;  nor  with 
what  conscientious  honesty  she  prevented  herself  from  deliber- 
ately seeking  to  contract  the  ailments  which  would  have  ensured 
his  attendance.  It  had  occurred  to  her,  while  his  hand  was 
on  her  racing  pulse:  "  How  easy  it  would  be  for  him  just  to 
bend  down  and  kiss  me.  So  easy  that  it  doesn't  seem  fair 
he  shouldn't.  So  easy  —  he  could  forget  it  at  once;  and  I 
should  always  remember.  .  .  ."  But  Doctor  Steele  had  re- 
linquished his  locum  tenency,  and  disappeared,  leaving  Deb 
with  no  such  memory. 

There  had  been  other  —  minor  adventures.  A  great  many. 
So  irresistibly  did  she  attract  them,  that  one  might  fancy 
her  reincarnated  from  some  famous  harlot  of  old  history. 
And  besides,  she  involuntarily  invited  them  because  she  was 
so  plainly  on  the  look-out.  Yet  she  was  on  the  look-out  not 
for  minor  adventures  but  for  the  big  thing;  the  thing  to 
engross  her  existence;  to  dwarf  its  lesser  trickiness;  to  drench 
her  quick  nervous  soul  with  peace;  provide  employment  for 
her  restless,  life-bitten  brain.  If  Deb  had  been  an  artist,  the 
big  thing  had  been  easier  to  find.  She  was  an  artist,  but  in 
appreciation  only ;  non-creative.  Or  if  Deb  had  been  religious. 
.  .  .  Religion  attacked  her  imagination  as  little  as  the  winged 
Victory,  rushing  like  wind  down  the  steps  of  the  Louvre.  She 
knew  that  the  masterpiece  was  there;  she  had  not  seen  it 
herself;  others  had  seen  it;  she  hoped  one  day  to  see  it. 
Meanwhile  —  she  could  do  without  it,  and  not  feel  the  loss. 

So,  a  pilgrim  without  a  staff,  she  had  roamed.  .  .  . 

But  this  special  incident  ought  not  to  have  occurred.  In- 
stinct told  her  there  was  a  certain  type  of  girl  to  whom  it 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  19 

could  not  have  occurred.  She  had  always  hoped  she  was  this 
girl;  sheathed  in  a  sort  of  hard,  transparent  whiteness  from 
which  anything  that  was  not  the  one  big  thing  would  infallibly 
slide  off,  without  giving  the  occupant  of  this  convenient 
armour  the  slightest  trouble. 

Of  late,  however,  she  had  been  growing  suspicious  of 
her  powers  to  ward  oflf  an  accumulation  of  petty  experi- 
ences. 

Experiences?  —  but  she  wanted  experience. 

She  tried  to  trace  back  the  initial  carelessness  —  yes,  care- 
lessness was  the  only  word  for  it  —  which  had  led  to  her  present 
plight.  She  ought  to  have  gone  to  her  room  to  lie  down,  in 
spite  of  Marianna's  sneers.  Yet  that  would  have  seemed  a 
ridiculous  affection  of  prudery,  especially  as  that  very  after- 
noon. .  .  .  Ah,  here  the  fault,  then!  .  .  .  But  she  had  not 
really  flirted  with  Ralph  von  Sittart;  the  ladies  of  Dorzheim 
had  misread  that  spurt  of  revolt  which  had  suddenly  lit  her 
to  flame;  revolt  from  their  disapproval  of  her;  revolt  from 
the  stiff  chairs  on  which  each  one  stiffly  sat,  with  her  stiff 
neck  upheld  in  whalebone.  .  .  .  Rather  than  make  one  of 
them,  she  had  preferred  to  squat  upon  the  bearskin  in  front 
of  the  tall,  white,  frozen  stove;  bend  down  her  unfettered 
neck  to  rub  her  cheek  caressingly  against  the  animal's  beautiful 
head  —  Oh,  it  had  been  an  exhibition  of  bad  manners,  cer- 
tainly; even  cheap  bad  manners  .  .  .  bearskins  and  tigerskins 
were  a  bohemianism  which  London  had  long  discarded;  but 
these  German  women  could  be  shocked  by  nothing  more  subtle 
than  the  effronteries  of  five  seasons  ago.  And  Deb  had  to 
shock  them,  in  the  impish  mood  which  possessed  her,  for  which 
EUy  Ladenberg  {nee  Harrison)  was  perhaps  primarily  re- 
sponsible. "You  haven't  brought  your  needle-work?  "  "I 
haven't  got  any,"  laughed  Deb.  "  Then  you  have  finished 
your  present  for  Frau  Koch?  "  in  a  discreet  undertone.  Deb 
learnt  that  it  was  the  sacred  custom  here  for  any  young  girl 
staying  with  a  married  lady,  to  stitch  a  most  elaborate  piece  of 
embroidery  as  a  thank-offering  for  her  hostess. 

The  information  depressed  her.     She  enquired  if  it  would 


20"  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

not  be  possible  to  obtain  the  same  effect  of  overpowering 
gratitude,  by  sending  to  an  expensive  shop  in  London. 

"  You  can  see  for  yourself  that  it  would  not  do.  The 
sentiment  would  not  be  the  same." 

"  Curse  the  sentiment,"  murmured  Deb  mournfully,  disap- 
pointed of  an  ally. 

.  .  .  The  word  was  passed  round  that  the  English  girl  was, 
to  say  the  least  of  it,  eccentric.  Anything  sensational  might 
be  expected  of  her. 

Deb  responded  flauntingly  to  their  expectations.  Impossible 
anyway  to  efface  herself  from  the  conspicuous  position  she 
occupied  as  "  Frau  Koch's  visitor."  Guests  were  rare  in 
Dorzheim;  no  jolly,  casual  happening,  but  a  solemn  event 
which  exacted  a  whole  code  of  ceremonial.  And  even  then 
the  visitors  were  usually  somebody's  relations.  But  all  of  a 
sudden  a  strange  girl  —  from  that  mad  country  —  even  Frau 
Koch  confessing  to  a  minimum  of  previous  acquaintance.  .  .  . 
"  The  poor  Marianna  tells  me  she  had  no  idea  that  the  father 
would  permit  it."  "  Odd,  very  odd.  Has  she  money,  do 
you  know?  "  "Oh,  surely;  her  dresses  are  of  the  best  ma- 
terial, even  though  they  are  fashioned  in  a  style.  .  .  .  dearest 
Frau  Bergmann  —  that  skirt!  " 

And  then  Ralph  Von  Sittart  had  strolled  into  the  party; 
handsome,  middle-aged  German-American,  who  propped  up 
his  indolence  by  an  elderly  wife's  income.  And  it  had  been 
a  well-nigh  hysterical  relief  for  Deb  to  hear  English  spoken. 
.  .  .  Frau  von  Sittart's  face  .  .  .  the  whispers  .  .  .  and  all 
the  knitting-needles  clacking.  .  .  . 

She  had  behaved  outrageously.  But  only  under  the  goad 
of  alert  protest  to  her  entire  personality,  to  her  slightest  act. 
She  was  in  a  false  position  from  the  start.  She  should  not 
have  come.  She  had  only  come  because  of  John  Thorpe's 
mother  and  the  ear-trumpet.  .  .  . 

ra 

At  this  stage  of  her  attempts  to  track  consequences  to  their 
motive  lair,  Deb  became  aware  that  her  feet  were  being  plagued 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  21 

by  pins  and  needles,  and  that  she  most  desperately  desired  to 
wriggle.  She  judged  that  it  would  be  safe  now  to  awake  from 
slumber  ...  it  must  be  a  full  half-hour  that  she  and  Felix 
Koch  were  lying  motionless  side  by  side.  She  opened  her 
eyes,  raised  herself  on  one  elbow,  sighed  deeply,  as  one  who 
yields  up  a  pleasant  dreamland.  Then  only  did  she  perceive 
that  all  this  pantomime  was  unnecessary;  her  companion  was 
quite  peacefully  asleep. 

Deb  slithered  off  the  couch,  tip -toed  to  the  door,  closed  it 
soundlessly  behind  her.  No  one  was  in  the  hall.  She  ran 
upstairs,  and  knocked  at  the  door  of  her  brother's  room. 

Richard,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  was  standing  in  front  of  the 
looking-glass;  and  with  a  brush  ferociously  brandished  in 
either  hand,  was  frustrating  his  hair's  racial  inclination  to 
curl. 

"Are  you  dressing  for  supper?  The  others  don't,  you 
know." 

"  No  reason  for  me  to  be  a  barbarian,  if  they  are,  is  it?  " 

"When  in  Rome " 

"  Do  as  the  Romans  dorCt  —  if  they're  Germans !  " 

"  Richard  —  we  had  awful  trouble  at  home  sometimes  to 
get  you  to  dress  in  the  evenings." 

He  grinned.  "Had  you?  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  you 
had  it  again."  After  a  pause,  he  enquired :  "  How  long 
d'you  want  to  stop  here.  Deb?  " 

"  In  Dorzheim?     Don't  you  like  it?  " 

He  considered  a  moment.     "No." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Lots  of  reasons.     Can't  be  bothered  to  think  'em  all  out." 

"  We  ought  to  stay  a  fortnight,  now  they've  invited  us, 
and  we've  come." 

"All  right." 

Deb  sat  down  on  the  bed.  Immediately  the  great  inflated 
pillow  that  acted  as  eiderdown  almost  submerged  her  in  its 
rising  billows.     She  struck  them  down  passionately  — 

"  Richard." 

"  Um?  " 


22  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  Don't  leave  me  alone  with  Felix  Koch,  if  you  can  manage 
it.  .  .  ." 

She  was  prepared  for  a  brotherly  outburst:  "  D'you  mean 
to  say  the  fellow  dared — "  But  Richard  laid  down  his 
brushes,  and  took  up  his  collar,  with  a  total  absence  of  all 
emotion.     "  Oh,  all  right." 


CHAPTER  II 


A  FEW  days  later,  Felix  Koch  came  back  at  an  unwonted 
hour,  between  dinner  and  supper,  and  beckoned  his  wife 
to  a  private  conference.  Her  luminous  eyes,  as  she 
went,  testified  to  a  hope  that  the  mystery  enveloped  a  fur  cloak. 

Presently  Richard  was  summoned. 

"  Row  about  Lothar  von  Relling,"  he  explained  nonchal- 
antly to  Deb  afterwards. 

"Lothar?" 

"  Gloomy  little  beggar  with  the  astonished  hair  who  came 
here  once  to  tea.  You  ought  to  know.  Deb.  The  whole  shindy 
concerns  you.     What  have  you  been  up  to?  " 

She  reflected  a  moment  before  confession.  Prudence 
prompted  the  query;  "  What  do  they  say  I've  been  up  to?  " 

Richard  chuckled  —  then  became  instantly  solemn.  "This 
morning,  Herr  Sanitats-Rath  Oberunterammergau  von  und 
zu  hellofarau  Maximilian  Hauffe  called  upon  the  honest  and 
respected  banker,  Felix  Koch,  to  complain  that  his  daughter 
Frieda-Marie  had  been  slighted  and  insulted  by  said  daughter's 
plighted  husband-to-be,  Lothar  von  Relling,  who  was  seen 
two  evenings  ago  in  the  darkest  portion  of  the  Griinewald  — 
need  I  go  on?  " 

"  N-no,"  said  Deb,  "  you  needn't  go  on  with  that  part  of  it. 
Tell  me  what  the  Kochs  are  saying?  " 

Richard  dropped  into  a  creditable  imitation  of  Felix  Koch, 

"So  I  say  with  dignity  to  Herr  Hauffe:  'Herr  Hauffe,  tell 
me  only  this:  is  your  anger  at  what  has  occurred,  is  it  because 
my  guest  is  a  Jewess?  because  I  myself  am  a  Jew?  If  so, 
I  regret,  but  I  will  not  move  in  the  matter.'  And  he  replied, 
taking  off  his  hat:     '  Herr  Koch,  let  me  now  assure  you  that 

23 


24  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

there  is  no  one  in  this  town  for  whom  I  have  a  respect  more 
profound  than  for  yourself;  I  am  a  broad-minded  man,  and 
had  your  guest  been  a  Christian  lady,  which  she  is  not,  I  should 
have  still  been  obliged  my  present  course  in  defence  of  my 
daughter's  honour  to  pursue.'  At  this  I  started  up,  and  put 
on  my  hat,  and  gave  him  my  hand  in  friendship,  and  together 
we  went  to  Frau  von  Relling.  Ei,  but  Dorzheim  stared  to 
see  us  arm-in-arm;  twenty-seven  Catholics  alone  took  off 
their  hats  to  us " 

"  Is  there  lots  more  about  hats,  Richard?  " 

"  No,  the  rest  is  mostly  about  Lothar  and  you.  The  whole 
town  is  simply  ramping.  You're  a  goose.  Deb.  'Tisn't  worth 
it.  Why,  he's  only  six  months  older  than  I  am  —  and  a  Ger- 
man i  " 

"  Do  you  suppose  /  got  any  fun  out  of  it?  "  she  flared. 

But  it  was  niggardly  to  grudge  something  that  lay  within 
her  power  to  give.  Or  wasn't  it?  .  .  .  Chastity  —  the  girl 
in  white  armour.  ...  To  give  so  easily,  though  —  she  remem- 
bered Doctor  Steele.  And  the  gloomy  little  boy  had  thirsted 
for  that  one  kiss;  too  inarticulate  to  ask  for  it;  too  comic, 
in  his  owl's  spectacles  and  low  collar  and  vertical  crest  of  hair, 
to  make  a  silently  romantic  plea,  he  just  sat  on  the  pile  of  logs 
looking  up  at  her  in  dazed  sickly  reverie,  as  she  came  towards 
him  along  the  misty  blue  road  that  meandered  among  the  fir 
trees  behind  the  town.  She  understood  that  by  lightly  drop- 
ping her  lips  on  to  his,  there,  in  that  scene,  at  that  hour,  she 
could  give  him  an  exquisite  moment  to  carry  through  the 
sentimental  years  into  manhood.  Why  not,  then?  The  girl 
who  withholds  such  chance  gifts  in  her  power,  for  the  sake  of 
what  was  called  her  bloom,  what  was  she,  after  all,  but  a 
miser? 

Deb's  kiss  was  just  an  impulse  of  almsgiving.  She  did  not 
shatter  the  boy's  ecstasy  by  speech.  Hardly  pausing  in  her 
walk,  she  bent  ...  he  had  a  vision  of  her  serious  mouth  and 
warmly  glowing  eyes  .  .  .  and  she  went  swiftly  on. 

Frau  Huldah  von  Sittart,  who  witnessed  the  idyll  and  re- 
ported on  it,  could  not  have  been  expected  to  interpret  its 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  25 

psychology  correct.  But  to  Richard,  Deb  tried  to  explain.  .  .  . 
It  was  intolerable  that  he  should  suppose  she  enjoyed  kissing 
scrubby  little  schoolboys. 

He  listened,  brows  knitted  severely:  "But,  my  dear  kid, 
that  sort  of  philanthropy  is  rather  dangerous,  isn't  it,  where 
men  in  general  are  concerned?  " 

"  It's  just  whether  one  is  to  be  generous  or  stingy  —  oh,  don't 
you  see?  ...  to  give  what  matters  so  little  to  me,  and  so 
tremendously  much  to  them " 

"  Make  a  habit  of  it,  you'll  end  by  giving  what  means  so 
much  to  you  and  so  precious  little  to  them." 

Richard's  wisdom  was  a  mere  accident  of  repartee;  and 
Deb  did  not  smile;  she  very  rarely  smiled;  but  her  voice  at 
all  times  held  a  certain  clear  joyousness  that  was  in  startling 
contrast  to  her  tired  little  face;  her  voice  was  a  child,  years 
younger  than  her  lips  or  her  eyes.  So  that  Richard  could  only 
dimly  suspect  her  of  hidden  laughter  as  she  said:  "  I  esteem 
your  judgment,  but  —  you're  rather  precocious,  aren't  you?  " 

"  Good  Lord,  no !  "  he  shouted,  appalled.  "  I'm  sensible. 
You  can't  walk  about  dropping  kisses." 

"  Dropping  magic,"  she  corrected  him  gravely.  "  And  if 
I'm  not  the  poorer,  and  am  quite  sure  they  will  be  the 
richer.  .  .  ."  She  tilted  her  head  defiantly:  "Richard,  I'd 
rather  be  royal  than  —  good !  " 

Richard  pondered  a  moment  over  this.  His  sister  watched 
him  with  eyes  that  were  half  sorrowful,  half  impudent.  Most 
people  would  have  been  astonished  that  she  could  confide 
such  feminine  subtleties  in  a  brother  eight  years  her  junior. 
But  she  had  never  yet  been  disappointed  by  a  rebuff  from 
Richard  that  was  sheer  scoffing  schoolboy  and  no  more.  He 
possessed  certain  qualities  she  lacked,  of  uncompromising 
fairness  and  sanity.  Also,  he  was  shock-proof;  an  imperturb- 
able Mahomet  to  whom  all  mountains  came,  and  were  received 
in  a  take-it-for-granted  spirit. 

Sometimes  Deb  wondered  just  where,  in  all  this  mass  of 
solidity,  lay  buried  that  mysterious  streak  of  understanding  — 
kinship,  perhaps  —  on  which  she  relied. 


26  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

Now  he  said :  "  Well,  I  wouldn't  practise  your  theory  of 
magic-dropping  in  Dorzheim,  if  I  were  you.  'Tisn't  the  right 
place  for  it.  Too  many  Germans  about.  Germans  take  things 
seriously." 

Richard  was  right.  Dorzheim  did  take  this  act  of  Deb's  with 
great  and  exceeding  seriousness.  They  had  primarily  con- 
sulted Richard,  and  begged  him  to  reprimand  his  sister,  in  the 
Teuton  spirit  that  the  male,  in  all  emergencies,  takes  prece- 
dence. 

The  pastor  and  the  schoolmaster  and  Frau  von  Relling  and 
Herr  Sanitats-Rath  Hauffe  and  Huldah  van  Sittart  and  Felix 
Koch  paid  one  another  a  succession  of  formal  calls.  Then 
suddenly  Frau  von  Relling  called  no  more  upon  the  Kochs  .  .  . 
and  small  wonder,  since  Frieda-Marie  Hauffe  had  been  prom- 
ised an  exceptionally  large  dowry,  and  it  was  sheer  madness 
for  Lothar  to  have  imperilled  this.  True,  Wanda  von  Rell- 
ing still  came  to  Marianna's  At  Home  day;  but  this  was  merely 
an  act  of  defiance  towards  old  Frau  Koch  (not  on  speaking 
terms  with  Marianna)  who  had  condoled  with  Frau  von  Relling 
(not  on  speaking  terms  with  Wanda)  on  her  affliction  for  which 
the  younger  Koch  household  was  responsible.  And  anyhow, 
all  Dorzheim  knew  that  Wanda  had  tried  to  get  Sigismund  Koch 
and  had  failed ;  so  naturally  and  out  of  spite,  she  would  choose 
to  continue  visiting  at  the  house  of  Felix  (not  on  speaking  terms 
with  Sigismund).  .  .  .  But  all  this  led  back  to  ancient  history; 
and  Dorzheim,  flushed  and  garrulous,  was  not  to  be  diverted 
from  the  delicious  new  scandal  of  the  daughter  of  Herr  Sani- 
tats-Rath Hauffe  insulted  through  the  medium  of  the  English 
girl  staying  with  the  Felix  Kochs.  Well,  and  had  she  not 
flirted  with  Ralph  van  Sittart  as  well?  Half  Dorzheim  had 
seen  her  do  it.  The  other  half  of  Dorzheim  had  noticed  her 
drinking  coffee  with  Sigismund  Koch;  yes,  actually  setting  her 
cap  at  him,  the  buck  of  the  town,  the  famous  rake  —  Ach !  and 
did  Felix  know?  ..."  And  what  was  she  doing  walking  alone 
in  the  woods  at  that  hour  of  evening?  "  demanded  Frau  Huldah 
with  relish:  "Do  modest  maidens  walk  without  escort? 
Though  to  be  sure  I  have  heard  her  say  she  is  already  twenty- 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  27 

three;  doubtless  she  is  in  fear  she  will  be  left  sitting."  "  And 
Lothar  von  Railing  is  a  Protestant;  has  been  confirmed  only 
half  a  year  ago,  with  my  Karl ;  that  comes  of  it,  then,  when  one 
permits  oneself  to  be  intimate  with  a  Jewish  family;  I  could 
have  told  Frau  von  Relling.  .  .  ." 

The  scandal  threatened  to  broaden  into  religious  controversy. 

And  Frieda-Marie,  poor  wormling,  was,  ach,  inconsolable! 
Hitherto  in  Dorzheim  a  betrothal  was  sacred.  Others  of  our 
sons  may  follow  Lothar  von  Relling's  example  of  insubordina- 
tion. To  prevent  which  calamity,  Lothar  was  first  expelled 
from  the  Gymnasium;  then  locked  into  his  bedroom;  visited 
alternately  by  the  pastor  and  the  schoolmaster;  finally,  ban- 
ished to  an  aunt  and  uncle  in  Dresden.  Lothar  went,  darkly 
uplifted  in  his  martyrdom;  thrilling  to  a  certain  deathless  mem- 
ory; but  wishing,  nevertheless,  that  before  going  he  might  have 
had  a  word  or  two  with  Frieda-Marie,  of  whom  he  was  very 
fond,  and  who  was  after  all  his  betrothed.  .  .  . 

Still  without  a  smile,  Dorzheim  settled  down  to  see  what  Deb 
would  do. 

Deb  did  quite  a  lot.  She  was  heady  with  her  first  draught 
of  conspicuous  unpopularity.  Vivid  and  defiant  and  a  little 
frightened  too.  Never  before  had  she  found  herself  so  the  cen- 
tre of  animated  disapproval.  And  as  none  of  those  who  disap- 
proved were  of  the  people  who  mattered  to  her,  she  was  not 
hurt,  nor  cast  down,  but  merely  possessed  by  the  mischievous 
wish  to  do  her  worst  on  the  propriety  of  Dorzheim;  to  avenge 
their  harsh  dealings  with  inoffensive  little  Lothar  von  Relling; 
to  yield  them  more  and  more  material  for  spiteful  gossip.  In 
brief,  to  earn  their  condemnation  —  these  folk,  who  would  not, 
could  not,  laugh. 

She  had  plenty  of  social  opportunity  for  exploiting  her  his- 
trionic demon.  For  whatever  Dorzheim's  private  opinion  of 
Deb,  etiquette  decreed  that  Frau  Koch's  guest  should  be  shown 
"  attention,"  should  be  feted  and  entertained.  Dorzheim  did 
its  duty  by  Deb,  and  so  considered  itself  free  to  censure  her. 
She  was  invited  to  attend  numerous  afternoon  coffee-parties, 
and  one  big  dinner-party  at  which  lawyers  and  doctors  and 


28  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

their  wives  formed  the  majority,  and  Felix  Koch  was  the  only 
banker,  as  he  gleefully  informed  Deb.  She  learnt  then  for  the 
first  time  the  exact  ladder  of  snobbery,  of  which  the  apex  is  the 
nobility;  thence  on  a  descending  scale  to  the  military  —  the 
professionals  —  bankers  —  merchants  —  clergy  and  schoolmas- 
ters—  everybody  heedful  of  their  head  among  the  feet  on  the 
rung  above;  everybody  ignoring  the  humbler  position  of  their 
own  feet.  Jews  had  their  own  parallel  ladder  of  snobbery; 
and  actors  and  artists  were  not  properly  considered  on  any 
ladder  at  all. 

The  great  event  of  her  stay  was  a  Masonic  entertainment, 
where  she  was  conspicuous  in  her  dead-black  crepe-de-chine 
evening-dress.  "  An  unmarried  girl  in  black  —  Gott  in  Him- 
mel!     And  brunette  too;  had  she  been  a  blonde,  one  might  have 

forgiven  her,  though  even  then "     Most  of  the  other  ladies 

wore  afternoon  toilet;  and  a  few  were  in  tartan  blouses  with 
the  neck  ripped  out,  and  dark  skirts.  At  this  party  Deb  made 
the  acquaintance  of  the  owner  of  the  largest  jewel  factory  in 
Dorzheim;  who  the  next  day  formally  conducted  her  over  the 
premises;  into  the  cavernous  underground  workshops;  dimness 
speckled  by  small  shaded  red  lights;  at  each  separate  table  a 
man  in  tinted  blinkers  intent  on  a  heap  of  precious  stones  that 
he  would  sift  carelessly  through  his  huge  hairy  fingers,  before 
selecting  one  for  his  mysterious  tools.  None  of  these  men 
looked  up  as  their  employer  and  his  party  passed  among  them. 
Deb  felt  the  sunless  air  choked  up  with  hatred  and  menace;  the 
whirring  of  the  thousand  little  machines  oppressed  her;  it  was 
an  evil  place  —  and  she  remembered  Koch's  allusion  to  the 
Socialist  influence  and  possible  trouble.  .  .  . 

Home-life  did  not  exist  for  the  Kochs;  every  evening,  when 
no  set  form  of  entertainment  was  offered,  Felix  and  Marianna, 
Deb  and  Richard,  sat  in  the  big  restaurant  in  Lindenstrasse;  sat 
there  for  two  or  three  hours,  drinking  coffee  or  syrups,  eating 
sweet  cloying  cakes;  while  the  men  roared  their  politics  or 
slammed  the  domino-cubes  on  the  table,  and  slowly  obliterated 
their  womenfolk  in  clouds  of  foul  smoke.  The  group  about 
the  Kochs  was  always  a  large  one,  and  included  the  younger 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  29 

brothers  who  had  been  hastily  sent  for  from  neighbouring 
towns  on  rumour  of  Deb's  enormous  dowry.  Deb  was  herself 
responsible  for  this  rumour.  It  was  one  of  her  first  acts  of 
devilry.  Actually  it  procured  her  three  proposals  .  .  .  her  ex- 
cited fancy  multiplied  these  to  a  grotesque  figure  out  of  all 
proportion  to  the  truth.  The  trio  of  smug-correct  young  men, 
overwhelming  her  with  staccato  bows  and  wired  nosegays  and 
compliments  which  an  intelligent  child  of  ten  might  have  dis- 
dained, made  their  offers  of  marriage  almost  simultaneously, 
and  were  all  three  accepted,  with  meek  surprise  that  they  should 
care  for  a  portionless  damsel  ...  at  which  they  melted  to  the 
limpness  of  three  candles  left  in  a  strong  sun,  and  melted  out 
of  Deb's  sight,  and  melted  away  from  Dorzheim.  And  two  of 
them,  because  they  had  begun  to  love  her,  kept  silence  as  to  the 
reason  for  their  withdrawal.  But  Ludo  Salzmann  wrote  vin- 
dictively to  the  sister-in-law  who  had  summoned  him.  And 
Deb,  compelled  in  self-respect  to  commit  one  villainy  the  more, 
accepted  Sigismund  Koch's  invitation  to  drink  tea  with  him  in 
his  rooms  .  .  .  "English  fashion  —  yes,  I  have  dwelt  some 
time  in  England." 

He  had  been  accidentally  introduced  to  her  at  the  Lodge  en- 
tertainment. And  afterwards  Felix  remarked  wrathfully,  and 
hardly  in  the  spirit  of  Masonic  or  natural  brotherhood:  "  You 
are  not  to  speak  to  that  fine  fellow.  You  understand?  Not 
witli  my  consent.  Hundert-tausendteufel !  —  and  what  did  you 
think  of  him?" 

"  He's  very  handsome,"  demurely. 

"  Ach,  he  is  a  scoundrel!  And  do  you  know  what  they  call 
him  in  the  town,  with  his  brown  curly  beard  and  pale  face? 
They  call  him  Jesus  Christus.  That's  a  joke,  you  see."  Felix 
laughed  uproariously,  and  Richard  asked:  "  Why  is  it  a  joke, 
sir?  "  "But  can't  you  see?  He,  my  brother,  is  a  Jew  .  .  . 
and  they  called  him  Jesus  Christus!  "  "But  Jesus  Christ  was 
a  Jew,"  argued  Richard  stolidly.  Koch  stared  at  him.  The 
English  had  no  sense  of  humour.  He  turned  the  conversation 
from  wit  to  politics:  "What  in  your  opinion  are  the  present 
aims  of  Mister  Usskeess?  "     But  Richard  was  unable  to  fit  the 


30  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

name  to  any  English  statesman  of  his  knowledge,  so  did  not 
take  up  the  challenge. 

With  all  his  reputation  of  a  fascinating  rake,  Sigismund  be- 
haved at  his  tea-party  with  exemplary  decorum.  Moreover,  he 
had  invited  his  mother  to  be  present.  Deb  liked  him  better 
than  any  one  she  had  met  since  her  arrival  in  Germany. 

"  What  are  you  doing  in  Dorzheim,  for  goodness'  sake, 
child?  "     This  query  he  put  when  he  was  escorting  her  home. 

Deb  laughed.  "  I  wish  I  knew.  I  ran  away  from  a 
scrape " 

"  To  find  yourself  in  worse  scrapes  here?  " 

"  You've  .  .  .  heard  something  about  me?  " 

His  eyes  twinkled.     "  Tongues  wag  in  Dorzheim." 

"  May  —  may  I  come  to  you  about  it  ...  if  things  get 
bad?  "  For  in  spite  of  bravado,  she  was  becoming  apprehen- 
sive of  the  sly  malice  ever  more  apparent  in  Marianna's  conver- 
sation; of  the  enmity  piling  up  against  her;  and  of  a  vague, 
more  impersonal  enmity  which,  strangely,  seemed  to  loom 
behind. 

"  Heaven  protect  me  —  and  you  too !  "  exclaimed  Sigismund 
in  mock  horror.  "And  you  suppose  Dorzheim  would  regard 
me,  me  of  all  people,  as  a  suitable  confessor  for  your  sins?  " 

It  was  evident  that  Sigismund  prided  himself  on  his  reputa- 
tion as  a  "  dangerous  man." 

"  Where  have  you  been  this  afternoon?  "  demanded  Felix. 

"To  your  brother's  flat.  It's  —  it's  —  a  very  pretty  flat, 
isn't  it?  " 

The  banker  grew  livid.  "  I  tell  you,  Fraulein  Deb,  he  is  try- 
ing to  marry  you  for  your  money." 

"  He  did  not  try  anything  of  the  sort!  "  indignantly.  "  And 
I  have  no  money.     And  your  Frau  Mamma  was  there." 

"  That  was  an  arranged  insult  to  me,"  Marianna  declared. 

Marianna  was  enraged  because  her  well-planned  intentions 
with  regard  to  her  husband  and  Deb  had  miscarried.  Yet  more 
enraged,  because  they  had  not  quite  miscarried.  Moreover, 
Sigismund  happened  to  be  the  unknown  rival  whom  Felix  sus- 
pected in  the  background.    If  this  does  not  accord  with  his 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  31 

care  in  providing  an  adequate  chaperone  for  the  little  English 
rebel  who  so  indiscreetly  accepted  an  invitation  to  his  rooms, 
let  it  be  remembered  that  there  is  no  element  with  whom  the 
true  rake  deals  more  circumspectly  than  with  girlhood  .  .  . 
until  he  reaches  the  age  when  chastity  becomes  desirable  in- 
stead of  formidable. 

Marianna  was  further  enraged  because  Felix  had  said  he 
could  not  afford  visitors  and  fur  cloaks.  The  von  Rellings 
had  ceased  to  call.  And  now  Deb  was  drinking  tea  with  her 
mother-in-law  —  and  not  even  bothering  to  lie  about  it. 

And  yet,  when  Richard  proposed  abruptly,  at  supper,  that 
they  ought  to  be  thinking  of  departure,  both  his  host  and 
hostess  were  unable  to  stem  themselves  in  mechanical  utterance 
of  their  habitual  code  of  protest  and  renewed  hospitality: 
"  But  certainly  you  must  not  dream  of  leaving  us  yet  —  we 
shall  not  allow  it  —  you  have  been  with  us  so  little  time  —  it 
is  such  a  pleasure.    No,  no,  indeed  you  must  not  go.  .  .  ." 

II 

The  next  day,  most  of  the  workmen  in  the  factories  went  on 
strike.  Those  who  refused  were  attacked  as  blacklegs.  The 
quaint,  sunshiny  streets  were  hideous  with  brawling.  And  Deb 
could  no  longer  with  safety  be  allowed  to  take  her  solitary 
walks,  which  were  the  only  relief  from  the  strain  of  Marianna's 
perpetual  smiling  hatred. 

By  degrees,  her  feverish  mood  of  excitement  evaporated  en- 
tirely. She  began  to  dread  stumbling  over  the  traces  of  her 
own  joyous  misdemeanour.  Was  there  no  careless  youth  in 
this  tight,  compressed  little  city  of  envious  wranglings  and 
complicated  feuds  and  bitter  snobbery?  It  struck  her  with  a 
shock  that  Dorzheim  seemed  to  contain  no  element  between  sub- 
dued childhood,  and  ambitious  or  self-satisfied  matrimony. 

Something  ominous  was  afoot;  she  was  no  longer  the  centre 
of  interest;  men  came  and  went  on  short  journeys;  men  held 
whispered  conferences,  excluding  their  womenfolk.  Deb  felt 
ever  more  urgently  the  need  for  departure.  But  she  was  wait- 
ing for  a  letter  from  her  family  to  say  when  they  intended  leav- 


32  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

ing  Switzerland;  and  if  she  and  Richard  were  to  rejoin  them  at 
Montreux,  or  at  home  in  England.  The  letter  was  delayed; 
morning  after  morning  shfe  expected  it,  and  it  did  not  come.  It 
ought  to  have  contained  money  for  the  journey.  .  .  . 

Dorzheim  was  no  longer  a  funny  little  German  town,  inhab- 
ited mainly  by  caricatures.  It  was  a  place  of  horror.  .  .  .  She 
was  wakeful  at  nights  and  musing  at  her  window,  she  saw,  or 
thought  she  saw,  long  phantom  trains  glide  without  shriek  or 
rumble  over  the  railway-lines  some  half-mile  distant.  Black 
shapes  of  trains,  no  single  window  lit  .  .  .  all  night  they  were 
creeping  past  in  the  darkness  .  .  .  and  the  next  night  .  .  .  and 
the  next  .  .  .  every  time  she  rose  from  her  bed  to  look 
again.  .  .  . 

Ill 

"  Deb,  you  know  Austria  declared  war  on  Servia  the  other 
day?  " 

"Yes.     Well?" 

"Seen  the  papers  lately?  " 

"German  papers!  "  scornfully;  good  enough  for  Germans, 
of  course,  but 

"Russia  has  joined  Servia,  and  Germany  has  declared  war 
on  Russia,  and  —  we're  in  Germany.  They  say  that  France 
will  have  to  join  up  with  Russia,  and  perhaps  England  with 
France.  Then  there's  Holland  and  Belgium  .  .  .  doubtful  if 
they  can  keep  out.  .  .  . 

With  a  sound  like  the  rush  of  bursting  waters,  Deb's  night- 
mare ceased  to  be  her  private  aflfair.  .  .  .  Bursting  waters 
.  .  .  yes,  a  piece  of  music  —  Ravel,  was  it?  She  had  heard  it 
before  she  left  London  —  the  Sorcerer's  ignorant  apprentice 
left  alone  with  the  magic  broom  .  .  .  trickle  of  water  that  he 
summoned  up  .  .  .  torrents  of  water  .  .  .  multiplying  devour- 
ing water  ...  it  swamped  the  room  and  the  corners  of  the 
room  and  the  street  outside  and  the  world  beyond  .  .  .  gleeful 
swirls  of  water,  unrelenting,  irresistible,  that  pursued  and 
flooded  every  inch  of  dry  .  .  .  every  inch   of  dry  .  .  .  the 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  33 

music  roared  deafeningly  in  her  head,  drowning  coherent 
thought.  .  .  .  Somebody  had  touched  the  broom.  .  .  . 

She  told  Richard  about  the  fantastic  procession  of  trains. 

"  Troops,  of  course.  Being  hurried  to  the  frontier.  They 
must  have  quenched  all  the  lights.  Didn't  want  us  to  know 
they  were  prepared." 

"Us?     You  and  me?" 

"  England,  you  ass!  "  Richard  grinned  at  the  idea  of  a  nation 
plunged  in  darkness  for  the  benefit  of  himself  and  Deb.  Deb 
—  umph!  he  hunched  his  shoulders,  and  stared  at  her  moodily. 
He  was  responsible  for  Deb's  safety. 

"  You  wouldn't  care  to  marry  somebody  here  and  settle  down, 
I  suppose?  It  might  come  cheaper  than  hauling  you  along  to 
England.  It  would  be  sport  getting  through  if  I  were 
alone.  .  .  ." 

"  I'm  sorry.  No,  I'd  rather  not  settle  in  Dorzheim  for  good. 
But  we  could  go  home  by  two  separate  routes," 

"  Job  enough  to  find  one  route,  I  should  say.  Stop  ragging. 
Deb;  this  isn't  a  joke." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  murmured  again,  all  womanhood  abject 
before  the  gruff  commonsense  of  all  manhood. 

"  That  idiot  Koch  ought  to  have  warned  us.  He  must  have 
known  something.  We  should  have  left  here  a  week  ago,  when 
I  suggested  it.  .  .  .  If  it's  going  to  be  a  general  flare-up,  then 
one  jolly  well  wants  to  be  in  one's  own  country,  and  not  in 
somebody  else's!  " 


CHAPTER    III 


PATRIOTISM,  even  more  than  bunting-deep,  is  largely  a 
matter  of  habit.  Before  August,  nineteen-fourteen, 
Richard  had  rather  taken  his  country  for  granted.  Now 
he  awoke  to  an  England  that  in  return  for  years  of  security  and 
a  lazy  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  so  many  red  patches  on  the 
school-map,  suddenly  exacted  service  —  fighting  service.  Rich- 
ard cursed  his  age;  welcomed  any  indication  in  the  trend  of 
things  "  out  there "  that  seemed  to  prophesy  a  minimum  of 
three  years'  activities.  "  If  only  the  war  holds  out  till  I  can 
get  to  it!  "  He  suffered  from  disturbing  premonitions  of  a 
peace  signed  and  ratified  just  one  day  before  his  eighteenth 
birthday. 

War,  as  a  pastime,  a  profession,  an  emotional  outlet,  fulfilled 
every  unspoken  need  of  his  temperament.  He  was  a  born  pu- 
gilist; he  did  not  mind  bodily  discomfort;  he  was  endowed 
with  splended  physique;  he  kept  cool  in  emergencies;  he  had 
an  infinite  preference  for  male  society;  he  was  under  a  firm  im- 
pression that  he  was  devoid  of  that  cumbersome  burden  called 
imagination;  he  lacked  graceful  accomplishments.  What  did 
the  future  hold  for  a  boy  of  such  capacities  and  disqualifica- 
tions? Nineteen-fourteen  came  like  an  answer  to  an  obstinate 
riddle. 

And  —  confound  it!  —  he  was  not  yet  sixteen. 

Winborough  had  its  Cadet  Corps,  which  was  a  slight  com- 
pensation for  the  utter  meaningless  absurdity  of  Latin  and 
Greek  —  dead  studies  in  a  time  of  live  history.  At  least,  one 
was  preparing  for  a  later  share  in  the  conflict.  The  ethics  of 
war  and  peace  did  not  bother  him.  War  suited  him,  as  a 
definite  opportunity  for  concerted  action;  whereas  peace  ap- 

34 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  35 

peared  a  condition  infinitely  more  difficult,  more  scattered  and 
involved  and  hesitant.  Richard  approved  of  the  indubitable 
simplicity  of  a  nation  at  war:  every  mind  thinking  alike;  every 
effort  directed  towards  the  same  end;  loyalty  accepted  as  a 
predominant  emotion,  without  need  to  fuss  over  lesser  problems 
of  one's  personal  ego.  He  was  animated  as  yet  by  no  special 
rancour  towards  the  Germans.  .  .  .  Poor  old  Grandfather  was 
a  German;  rotten  for  him,  these  days!  Pater  was  naturalized, 
so  he  was  all  right  (the  yellow  press  was  not  circulated  at 
Winborough).  .  .  .  The  natural  conditions  of  war  demanded 
an  enemy,  and  the  Germans  would  do  as  well  as  any  one  else; 
better,  in  fact;  for  they  were  powerful  and  well-prepared,  so 
that  there  was  an  excellent  chance  that  hostilities  would  last 
till  Richard  was  eighteen 

He  always  came  back  to  that. 

The  Dunnes  were  both  in  the  navy;  Greville,  just  about  to 
join  the  Grand  Fleet  on  H.M.S.,  Canada;  young  Frank,  still 
at  Osborne.  Richard  spent  this  Christmas  of  Greville's  final 
leave  at  Mrs.  Dunne's  jolly,  crowded  cottage  in  Essex,  on  the 
outskirts  of  a  little  country  town  that  was  just  about  the  same 
size  as  Dorzheim.  .  .  .  He  amused  the  Dunnes  exceedingly  by 
his  accounts  of  that  place,  and  of  his  headlong  scramble  home 
with  Deb.  It  was  something  of  an  exploit  to  have  been  caught 
in  enemy  territory  on  the  eve  of  war :  "  If  we  had  started  for 
home  two  days  later,  we  shouldn't  have  started  at  all;  they'd 
have  kept  us  there  for  weeks,  probably,  and  then  goose-stepped 
us  over  the  frontier  under  strict  official  supervision." 

"  Deb,  not  you,"  Greville  corrected.  "  I  knew  a  chap  of  our 
age  who  was  at  Dresden  at  the  time,  and  they've  interned  him 
over  there." 

"Lord,  not  really!  That  would  have  been  a  swizzle,  miss- 
ing all  the  fun,  tucked  away  with  a  lot  of  rotten  Germans " 

"  They'd  be  English,  you  ass,  in  a  German  internment  camp." 

"  M'yes,  so  they  would.  Still,  one  would  be  horribly  out  of 
it  all ;  not  that  Winborough's  much  better  " —  reverting  to  the 
old  grievance  — "  I  wish  I'd  plumped  for  the  navy  when  you 
did." 


36  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

Mrs.  Dunne  smiled  rather  wistfully.  "  I  wonder  if  your 
father  shares  that  wish  of  yours,  Richard." 

"  Dunno.  Sha'n't  see  him  till  Easter,  I  expect.  I  was  glad 
to  be  away  these  hols,  out  of  all  the  fuss  of  moving.  We've 
let  our  house,  you  know." 

"  You  must  have  cheered  when  you  got  your  hoof  in  England 
again,"  Greville  remarked,  reverting  to  the  journey  from  Dorz- 
heim. 

But  instead  of  the  "  You  bet !  "  one  might  have  expected, 
Richard  was  silent.  ...  He  was  still  shy  of  remembering  the 
rush  of  sentiment  which  had  attacked  him  on  arrival  at  Folke- 
stone that  second  of  August,  after  three  chaotic  days  and  nights 
through  a  continent  that  was  screaming  mad  with  war.  .  .  . 
God  bless  these  stolid  English  porters  —  these  English  engines 
that  knew  reliably  whither  they  were  bearing  the  train  —  this 
decent  Sunday  evening  quiet  everywhere.  .  .  .  Richard  dug  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  and  snapped  his  lips  firmly  as  he  strode 
up  the  gangway  of  the  boat;  he  was  neither  lunatic  nor  poet, 
to  shout  aloud  the  paean :  "  England,  my  England !  "  that  was 
tightening  his  throat  and  thrumming  in  his  heart  .  .  .  but  he 
had  vowed,  nevertheless,  as  he  stepped  on  shore,  that  he  would 
prove  to  the  utmost  stretch  of  his  powers  a  good  citizen,  a  loyal 
patriot.  He  was  definitely  grateful  to  his  country  at  this  mo- 
ment for  its  mere  existence. 

The  emotion  had  died  to  a  vague  shame  at  having  made 
an  exhibition  of  himself,  even  with  himself  as  the  only  witness. 
Yet  now,  as  he  bent  forward  to  turn  the  chestnuts  roasting  over 
the  fire,  and  tossed  a  burnt  one  on  to  the  lap  of  Molly  Dunne, 
Greville's  flapper  cousin,  he  experienced  the  kind  of  satisfaction 
with  his  surroundings  which  can  best  be  translated  into  a 
heartfelt  grunt.  They  were  the  conventionally  right  sort  of 
people:  Mrs.  Dunne,  frail  and  pleasant;  the  two  boys  in  their 
blue  and  gold  uniforms;  Molly,  tanned  brown  as  her  own 
tangle  of  hair  —  an  ugly  kid,  but  good  sport.  A  rough  little 
terrier  lay  on  the  hearthrug;  everybody's  skates,  caked  from 
recent  use,  sprawled  all  over  the  shabby  chintz  furniture;  and 
the  big  holly-twined  portrait  of  the  late  Commander  Dunne 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  37 

domineered  the  room  from  above  the  mantelpiece.  Jolly  things 
strewn  about,  too;  the  model  of  a  Chinese  junk;  bits  of  queer 
distorted  coral  and  stone  and  shell;  fantastic  weapons  slung  on 
the  walls;  photographs  of  battleships  and  their  crews — all 
these  evidences  of  a  sailor  family,  and  far  lands,  without  in 
the  least  influencing  the  typically  English  atmosphere  of  the 
room.  If  the  Dunnes  had  settled  in  Japan  or  Bulawayo,  their 
apartments  would  still  have  been  as  —  Dunne-ish.  These  cu- 
rios—  they  were  just  curios,  neither  more  nor  less;  and  as 
such,  were  given  their  proper  place. 

Queer,  reflected  Richard,  that  before  the  spasm  of  homesick 
misery  which  had  thrust  at  him  on  a  certain  evening  in  the 
streets  of  Dorzheim,  he  had  never  been  consciously  aware,  as 
at  present,  of  a  state  of  well-being.  He  supposed  the  contrast 
had  for  good  or  for  evil  awakened  him;  and  questioned  glumly 
whether  it  were  altogether  convenient  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  per- 
ceptions as  sharpened  and  sensitive. 

If  this  were  Dorzheim,  then  the  chestnuts  would  be  ginger- 
bread; Greville  and  Molly  would  be  "betrothed"  by  arrange- 
ment of  their  elders ;  and  Richard  would  be  proudly  noting  the 
fact  that  he  was  the  one  Jew  with  whom  the  Dunnes  had 
"traffic.  .  .  ." 

Thank  goodness,  in  England  you  could  be  a  Jew,  and  hardly 
even  know  it.  .  .  . 

II 

Jews  .  .  .  but  the  Marcus  children  were  yearly  allowed  to 
hunt  for  hidden  Easter  eggs  in  their  garden.  Dorothea,  Fer- 
dinand's wife,  had  been  the  mildest  of  Protestants,  as  he  was 
the  most  tolerant  of  Israelites;  and  there  were  times  when 
bacon  and  matsas  had  appeared  simultaneously  upon  their 
table,  not  from  any  unadjusted  clash  of  orthodoxy,  but  merely 
that  Ferdinand  insisted  on  the  British  national  breakfast,  and 
Dorothea  had  an  eccentric  liking  for  unleavened  bread  when  it 
was  "  in  season."  Richard  and  Deb  never  learnt  any  Hebrew, 
till  the  approach  of  the  boy's  "  Barmitzfa  "  rendered  neces- 
sary in  his  case  a  certain  knowledge  of  the  language,  easily 


38  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

forgotten.  The  occasion  itself  struck  him  as  mainly  remark- 
able for  the  amount  of  presents  he  received.  Deb  considered 
it  distinctly  unfair  that  boys  should  be  able  to  put  in  such  a 
profitable  extra  birthday;  she  tried  to  get  quits  in  hard  value, 
by  accepting  as  often  as  offered  the  post  of  bridesmaid,  whether 
in  church  or  in  synagogue.  Both  religious  ceremonies  made 
an  equally  profound  impression  upon  her  —  for  an  hour.  The 
Marcuses  did  not  keep  up  the  Jewish  feast-days  and  holidays, 
and  consequently  the  younger  generation  were  rather  hazy  as 
to  their  origin  and  significance.  Ferdinand  made  a  half- 
hearted effort  to  keep  them  reminded  of  the  most  important  of 
these,  so  that  they  should  not  give  offence  to  such  of  their 
friends  and  relatives  as  were  strict  in  observance,  by  a  blank 
stare  of  ignorance  on  receiving  salutation:  " Muzzeltoff !  " 
They  wished  each  other  a  Happy  New  Year  quite  impartially  in 
the  autumn  and  on  the  first  of  January;  and  Christmas  was  a 
jovial  mingling  of  whatever  customs  were  pleasantest  of  di- 
verse creeds  and  countries. 

Dorothea  and  Ferdinand  had  agreed  that  whatever  children 
might  be  born  to  them,  should  make  their  own  choice  of  re- 
ligion, or  no  religion,  when  they  were  old  enough.  Themselves 
had  endured  much  from  despotic  parents,  and  were  eagerly  and 
insistently  broad-minded  in  their  educational  intentions. 

Old  Hermann  Marcus  had  sent  his  son  to  England  on  busi- 
ness when  the  lad  was  barely  twenty  —  a  shy,  plump,  sweet- 
faced  little  fellow,  with  bright  brown  eyes  round  with  admira- 
tion for  England  and  England's  ways.  Peremptorily  recalled 
to  Bavaria  after  two  years  of  Paradise,  he  summoned  all  his 
courage,  and  —  from  a  safe  distance  —  defied  the  tyrant  .  .  . 
somewhat  tempering  the  grand  effect  of  his  rebellion  by  a  dip- 
lomatic postscript  pointing  out  that  in  London  he  could  be  of 
more  service  to  the  firm  than  in  Munich;  was  rapidly  gather- 
ing custom;  and  hoped  in  a  few  years  to  be  able  to  marry. 
His  father  replied  tersely  that  he  was  a  thickhead,  had  always 
been  a  thickhead,  would  always  be  a  thickhead,  and  was  there- 
fore admirably  adapted  by  nature  to  settle  down  in  a  nation 
of  thickheads  — "  but  in  that  case,  you  will  at  once  sever  con- 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  39 

nection  with  my  business."  Ferdinand  dutifully  trotted  back 
to  Germany;  spent  several  wretched  months  in  vain  longings 
for  his  adopted  country;  and  finally,  not  being  of  that  stuff  of 
which  heroes  are  made,  sneaked  back  to  his  Hampstead  board- 
ing-house, his  tennis,  his  Sunday  river-parties,  and  mysterious 
November  fogs,  leaving  his  sister  Stella  to  break  the  news  to 
old  Marcus.  The  latter  promptly  cut  his  son  out  of  his  will. 
Ferdinand  perseveringly  worked  himself  up  to  a  sufficiently 
good  position  on  the  Stock  Exchange  to  be  able,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-seven,  to  rescue  Dorothea  Ladislov  from  an  uncon- 
genial home,  and  marry  her  romantically  at  the  registrar's. 
The  pretty,  black-haired  girl  was  the  daughter  of  an  aristo- 
cratic Czech  family,  which  had  settled  in  England  before  she 
was  born.  She  and  Ferdinand  had  fallen  in  love  over  their 
compared  experiences  of  early  years  heavy  and  burdensome 
with  must-nots.  Deb,  directly  she  appeared  on  the  scene,  flitted 
like  a  will-o'-the-wisp  through  dream-acres  of  sunshiny  free- 
dom planned  for  her  by  her  parents,  entirely  from  contrast 
with  their  own  rigidly  enclosed  childhood.  Not  all  the  present 
bliss  in  the  world  could  quite  compensate  for  those  best  lost 
years.  Deb  should  live  carelessly  radiant  from  the  very  be- 
ginning— "Not  spoilt,  Ferdie;  that's  different  and  hateful. 
She  must  learn  reasonable  manners  and  control;  obedience 
even.  Only  there  needn't  be  so  very  much  to  obey.  And  as 
soon  as  she  can  think  for  herself " 

"She  shall  dance  to  her  own  melodies.  Ja,  ja,  it  will  be 
pleasant  to  have  a  happy  little  daughter,  not  checked,  not 
afraid.  And  we  must  learn  not  to  be  shocked  at  her,  as  we 
grow  older.  She  shall  know  that  we  trust  her.  Indeed,  yes, 
it  will  be  all  right.  When  one  is  happy,  one  is  also  good. 
Our  parents  never  understood  that." 

"  It  will  be  all  right,"  echoed  Dorothea,  her  dark  eyes  tender 
and  luminous.  "  And  we  won't  grumble,  or  ask  questions,  will 
we?  Papa  was  always  grumbling,  and  Mamma  asked  so  many 
questions.  .  .  .  Ferdie,  it  would  be  terrible  if  we  should  for- 
get, and  wake  up  one  morning  to  find  we  were  only  ordinary 
parents." 


40  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

She  gave  a  little  gasp  of  horror.  Her  husband  took  her  face 
between  his  hands  and  kissed  it.  .  .  . 

They  made  quite  a  pretty  hobby  out  of  extraordinary  par- 
enthood. 

Then,  as  if  to  remind  them  that  the  other  species  still  existed, 
when  Deb  was  a  wilful  little  creature  of  seven,  came  an  imperi- 
ous summons  from  Ferdinand's  father,  who  most  inopportunely 
had  decided  to  forgive  them.  The  old  thraldom  held;  they 
had  no  option  but  meekly  to  submit  to  forgiveness.  This  neces- 
sitated a  journey  to  Bavaria  —  a  long  stay  in  Munich.  Stella 
was  so  glad  of  them,  so  glad  of  this  young,  laughing  sister- 
in-law  in  the  house.  But  Marcus  defied  all  tradition  of  stern 
grandfathers  by  refusing  to  succumb  instantly  to  the  pretty 
fearless  ways  of  his  first  grandchild ;  in  fact,  he  disapproved  so 
completely  of  Deb,  her  looks,  her  English  education,  her  un- 
rebuked  chatter,  her  clothes,  her  nurse,  her  loose  shower  of 
black  hair,  of  everything  that  was  Deb's,  that  she  was  kept  as 
much  as  possible  out  of  his  way.  Sweet-natured  and  sub- 
servient in  all  else,  Ferdinand  was  implacable  on  the  one  point: 
the  old  autocrat  should  not  interfere  with  the  happiness  of  one 
more  girl-child.  Already  he  had  doomed  Stella  to  spinster- 
hood;  he  forbade  young  men  inside  the  house,  and  forbade 
Stella  outside  the  house.  One  conventional  marriage  arrange- 
ment he  had  made  for  her  with  the  parents  of  a  sufficiently 
wealthy  suitor,  who,  however,  turned  from  Stella  to  a  larger 
dowry.  No  father  could  be  expected  to  do  more  in  the  way 
of  duty.  An  arrangement  which  Stella  had  the  temerity  to 
make  for  herself,  he  countered  by  the  simple  Teutonic  method 
of  locking  her  up,  and  shouting  at  her  till  she  was  tired.  .  .  . 

For  Ferdinand,  he  had  gained  a  slight  respect.  The  boy 
had  at  least  managed  to  win  some  sort  of  commercial  foot- 
hold. "What  do  you  reckon  to  make  per  annum,  wass?  " 
"About  six  hundred  to  a  thousand."  Marcus  was  distinctly 
impressed:  "  Ach!  as  little  as  that?  "  Ferdinand  enquired  after 
the  old  firm.  "The  profits  are  excellent,  sir;  increasing 
yearly.  Bah,  did  you  think  we  should  go  to  pieces  because  you 
left  us?  "  sarcastically. 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  41 

The  arrogant  old  merchant  was  lying.  At  Dorothea's  death 
he  was  thankful  for  an  excuse  to  let  Stella  go  to  England  and 
take  over  the  charge  of  her  brother's  household;  thankful  for 
an  excuse  to  cut  down  expenses  .  .  .  the  business  was  rapidly 
running  downhill.  He  warded  off  bankruptcy  for  another 
eleven  years  —  then  came  the  irrevocable  crash.  Ferdinand, 
who  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  filial  habit,  immediately  wrote 
and  offered  his  father  a  home  with  them.  So  Hermann  Marcus, 
at  the  age  of  seventy-seven,  came  to  England,  to  "  Daisybanks," 
in  Lansdowne  Terrace.  He  found  himself  instantly  relegated 
to  a  very  comfortable  back-seat  among  his  children  and  grand- 
children. Ferdie,  though  still  timid  in  actual  converse  with 
his  father,  yet  proved  stubbornly  master  in  his  own  house;  and 
Stella  had  developed  a  brisk  liveliness  which  was  a  true  source 
of  grief  to  her  father.  The  two  now  treated  his  attempts  to 
bully  them,  with  a  semi-humorous  tolerance  which  the  puzzled 
despot  could  only  ascribe  to  his  loss  of  income  — "  Of  course, 
if  I  were  swollen  with  money," — with  grim  common-sense  he 
designed  himself  to  dependence  and  rheumatism;  it  comforted 
him  to  suppose  his  loss  of  authority  was  due  to  material  and 
not  to  moral  causes. 

As  for  the  third  generation,  he  continued  to  disapprove  of 
Deb,  but  liked  Richard  infinitely  better.  "You've  no  eyes  for 
any  one  but  the  girl,"  he  would  growl  at  Ferdinand.  "  To  my 
two  children  I  dispensed  equal  affection."  Ferdinand  smiled. 
.  .  .  When  he  smiled  he  more  than  ever  resembled  a  cheerful 
little  troll,  his  small  ripe  face  a  web  of  intersecting  spidery 
wrinkles.  It  was  true  that  Deb  was  his  darling  who  could  do 
no  wrong;  it  was  for  Deb  that  he  and  Dorothea  had  built  up 
so  many  defiant  immature  plans  —  beautiful  plans.  Dorothea 
had  died  for  Richard's  life  .  .  .  she  would  have  loved  the  boy 
best,  if  she  had  lived;  Ferdie  guessed  it,  and  conscientiously 
tried  to  supply  a  double  quantity  of  favouritism.  But  Richard 
was  undemonstrative;  had  started  the  schoolboy  attitude  even 
while  his  nurse  was  hopefully  striving  against  odds  to  turn  him 
into  a  pretty  dear,  a  Fauntleroy.  At  three  years  old,  his  voice 
was  gruff,  his  knees  scraped,  his  manner  properly  off-hand,  his 


42  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

tastes  independent;  he  called  ladies  and  gentlemen  by  their 
surnames,  without  prefix,  when  they  bent  to  caress  "  dear  little 
Dickie."  It  was  disconcerting  to  Ferdie's  kindly-disposed  part^ 
ners,  misled  by  the  white  suit  and  deep  lace  collar,  to  find  heavy 
brows  bent  upon  them,  while  they  were  boomingly  hailed  as 
"  Nash  "  and  "  Rothenburg."  Aunt  Stella,  wisely  accepting  the 
inevitable,  bought  her  nephew  a  couple  of  rough  navy-blue  jer- 
seys, a  pair  of  sturdy  boots,  and  a  Newmarket  overcoat;  Nurse 
lamented  that  this  latter  article  was  not  in  white  bunny-fur  — 
"  Master  Dickie  looks  such  a  darling  in  white."  "  He  looks 
something  between  a  burglar  and  a  prize-fighter  in  anything; 
for  the  future,  Nurse,  he  had  better  be  known  only  as  Richard." 
"Oh,  Madam,  he's  but  a  baby  yet!  "  Richard  overheard,  and: 
"  I'm  but  a  baby  yet,"  he  pleaded  with  dignity  the  next  time 
his  father  attempted  to  administer  mild  but  well-deserved  chas- 
tisement.    From  sheer  astonishment,  Ferdie  let  him  off. 

And  after  that,  he  seemed  to  be  always  at  school,  or  "  knock- 
ing round  with  other  chaps."  He  fell  into  frequent  scrapes, 
and  usually  managed  to  fall  out  of  them  again  without  extran- 
eous assistance.  He  stolidly  kept  a  place  in  class  a  little  above 
half-way,  without  spurts  or  lapses.  His  philosophy  was  emi- 
nently suited  to  practical  needs;  he  kept  his  ugliness  well 
brushed  and  tubbed  and  free  from  eccentricity,  and  his  slow 
white  grin  had  a  bewildering  fascination. 

"  Our  young  Richard,  my  dear,"  commented  Aunt  Stella  to 
Deb,  "reminds  me  of  the  best  quality  of  almond  rock;  you 
take  it  home,  and  prepare  for  a  treat,  and  then  you  find  the 
sweetshop  girl  has  forgotten  to  break  it  up  for  you."  She 
spoke  English  perfectly,  but  with  foreign  vivacity  and  a  strong 
foreign  accent.  "Richard  has  never  been  broken  up;  he  is 
unwieldy ;  he  cannot  be  put  in  the  mouth." 

"  But  he  is  of  the  best  quality,"  Deb  quickly  defended  him; 
and  was  silent  for  a  r  oment,  thinking  about  Richard.  She 
adored  the  boy;  was  content  to  know  that  she  came  first  with 
him,  though  he  rarely  saw  her,  and  still  more  rarely  spoke  to 
her  except  in  the  ordinary  way  of  younger-brother  teasing. 

"  Aunt  Stella,  Richard  isn't  so  stodgy  as  he  likes  to  think  he 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  43 

is,"  she  said  suddenly.  "  Do  you  know,  twice  I've  seen  him 
nearly  hysterical." 

"  My  child,  you're  dreaming." 

"  I'm  not.  Once  was  because  a  wasp  was  circling  over  his 
plate,  and  wouldn't  go  away.  And  the  other  time  was  over 
a  book." 

"  Dear  me,  what  book?  " 

But  Deb  was  sorry  now  she  had  spoken  so  impulsively. 
Stella  Marcus  had  a  disconcerting  way  of  making  every  sub- 
ject seem  as  a  hollow  ball  with  a  tinkle  inside,  to  be  lightly 
tossed,  twice,  thrice,  and  then  let  fall  ...  to  roll  away. 

"What  book?" 

" '  A  Tale  of  Two  Cities.'  " 

"  Oh,  every  little  boy  cries  over  that." 

Deb  had  lied.  It  was  not  "  The  Tale  of  Two  Cities,"  but  an 
account  of  the  Dreyfus  case. 

This  first  war  Christmas  of  nineteen-fourteen,  the  Marcuses 
moved  out  of  their  house  in  Lansdowne  Terrace.  The  Stock 
Exchange  was  one  of  the  definite  places  where  a  man  of  Ger- 
man extraction  could  be  made  to  feel  uncomfortable;  very  un- 
comfortable. Ferdinand  Marcus  did  not  complain  of  the  cold- 
shouldering  he  received.  "It's  natural,  Stella;  every  time  I 
open  my  mouth  they  are  bound  to  be  reminded."  But  then 
some  arbitrary  stockbroker  accused  him  publicly  of  being  a 
spy  and  a  traitor  .  .  .  and  Marcus  quickly  resigned  his  part- 
nership in  the  firm  of  Nash,  Rothenburg  and  Marcus;  and  with- 
drew to  live  as  best  he  might  on  his  income.  The  little  man 
was  hurt  and  sorrowful;  he  loved  England  passionately  —  he 
had  renounced  Germany  and  chosen  England  from  motives  of 
pure  love.  Not  all  the  sons  of  Germany  are  as  violently  at- 
tached to  the  Fatherland  as  the  Fatherland  would  like  to  make 
out.  Some  among  them  have  resented  the  prison-wall  system, 
the  prevalent  aggressive  despotism  that  crushes  out  their  hu- 
man ways  and  wishes.  So  they  had  come  to  England,  and 
had  found  a  difi"erence,  and  had  stayed.  ..."  Especially  we 
Jews  find  the  difference,"  Ferdinand  explained  to  his  sister, 
Vfhen.  he  told  her  what  had  occurred  on  the  Exchange.     "  They 


44  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

don't  realize,  over  here,  how  the  Jews  are  still  treated  in  Ger- 
many. And  so  they  won't  believe  that  our  loyalty  to  a  country 
adopted  is  not  hypocrisy,  and  that  we  can  be  truly  glad  if 
England  wins  the  war.  Stella,  I  wish  they  would  believe  it; 
I  wish  they  would."  His  lips  trembled  with  the  pathos  of  a 
child  who  has  received  an  unmerited  snubbing.  "  What  ho ! 
who  cares?  "  he  cried  jerkily.  Ferdie  took  pride  in  his  col- 
lection of  English  slang;  a  pride  which  dated  back  to  his 
enforced  return  to  Germany,  thirty-two  years  ago,  with  a  few 
typical  samples  of  the  period.  Stella  remembered  how  he 
had  kept  up  his  forlorn  spirits  by  use  of  such  defiant  oddments 
as  "  By  Jingo,"  "  Here  we  are  again,"  "  It's  all  my  eye  and 
Betty  Martin," — "  What's  that?  "  thundered  his  father,  over- 
hearing. Ferdie,  blushing  crimson,  tried  to  explain  that  Betty 
Martin  was  the  name  of  a  lady  —  and  —  and  the  rest  was 
idiom.  "You  will  hold  your  mouth,"  came  the  irritable 
edict.  .  .  . 

Now — "What  ho!  who  cares?  "  But  he  was  miserable  at 
the  necessity  for  leaving  his  home.  He  was  at  that  ripe  pippin 
stage  of  the  late  forties  when  comfort,  sentiment,  and  beaming 
good-humour  make  a  happy  blend  of  man.  His  voice  had  loud- 
ened to  a  hearty  geniality.  When  he  sat  in  a  chair,  he  ex- 
panded and  filled  it  out.  On  the  anniversaries  of  Dorothea's 
death  and  of  their  wedding-day,  he  did  not  go  to  business,  but 
put  white  flowers  under  her  portrait,  and  sobbed  tenderly  and 
unashamedly  over  the  memories  aroused.  He  liked  standing 
with  his  carving-knife  at  the  head  of  his  own  table,  with  a 
well-roasted  joint  in  front  of  him.  He  liked  Christmas  carols, 
and  happy  faces,  and  giving  presents  to  his  family,  and  sur- 
prises, and  Deb's  arms  round  his  neck  while  she  pleaded  for 
some  special  treat;  and  songs  with  a  bloom  of  mellow  sadness 
over  them;  and  a  tame  landscape  with  a  sort  of  chubby  frolic 
to  it  —  cottage-children  or  lambs  in  the  sunshine;  and  well- 
worn  slippers,  and  moonlight.  If  he  had  continued  to  live  in 
South  Germany,  he  would  no  doubt  have  liked  Schumann  and 
beer,  and  the  Lorelei  and  charcoal-burners  and  Grimms'  Fairy- 
tales.    Perhaps  these  tastes  still  lingered  on,  unsuspected,  in 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  45 

his  system,  subservient  to  a  solemn  love  for  the  river  Thames; 
he  had  given  his  heart  to  the  Thames  while  he  was  still  a  strip- 
ling, and  no  Rhine-memories  could  alter  the  preference.  Rich- 
ard certainly  should  go  to  Oxford;  Ferdie  looked  forward  to 
visiting  him  there;  to  some  mysterious  festivity  entitled  Com- 
mem. 

Above  all,  perhaps,  he  loved  the  sight  of  lovers.  Lovers 
such  as  he  and  Dorothea  had  been:  compounded  of  joy  without 
ecstasy;  sadness  without  anguish;  youthful,  blushing  lovers 
who  held  hands,  and  could  be  teased  and  blessed.  .  .  .  And 
later  — "  the  bride  was  given  away  by  her  father."  .  ,  .  And 
later  still:  " —  of  a  girl  "...  who  would  soon  learn  to  blow 
on  his  watch  and  crow  when  it  flew  open. 

For  of  course  he  was  thinking  of  Deb. 

No  parental  coercion  in  her  case;  no  prudent  selection  by 
her  elders.  To  that  he  was  pledged ;  had  not  he  and  Dorothea 
planned  that  Deb  should  seek  out  her  own  true  mate  in  her  own 
good  time,  and  bring  him  home? 

And  bring  him  home.  .  .  .  But  home  was  *'  Daisybanks," 
Lansdowne  Terrace.  Ferdie's  pleasures  were  not  of  the  scat- 
tered order,  but  had  associated  themselves  very  closely  with 
just  that  click  to  the  gate,  announcing  his  home-coming  every 
evening;  just  that  Virginia  creeper,  matting  one  side  of  the 
house  in  red;  and  just  that  half-acre  of  garden  at  the  back, 
where  the  sweet-william  and  the  canterbury  bells  repaid  so 
gratefully  his  careful  watering  every  summer  evening,  though 
the  hose  still  leaked  at  that  one  faulty  portion  of  rubber 
tubing. 

"  We  shall  have  to  tell  them  about  that  leak,  Stella,"  was  all 
he  found  courage  to  say,  when  his  sister  informed  him  that  she 
had  already  found  a  tenant  to  take  over  their  expiring  lease, 
and  to  buy  the  furniture. 

Stella  was  the  practical  person  of  the  family.  Stella  had 
beautiful  white  teeth,  and  a  shrill  excitable  voice.  Because  she 
rattled  on  incessantly,  she  was  regarded  by  her  contemporaries 
as  a  wit;  and  her  popular  entrance  into  a  room  was  usually 
hailed  uproariously,  as  though  the  assembled  company  had 


46  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

been  awaiting  its  jester.  Her  secret  horror  was  to  be  regarded 
as  the  traditional  narrow-minded  and  intolerant  old  maid;  and 
to  avert  this  she  harped  facetiously  on  the  topic.  She  owned 
a  unique  collection  of  the  sort  of  cayenne  "  good  tale  "  which 
can  always  be  relied  upon  to  raise  at  least  one  blush  and  one 
protest;  and  so  by  repartee  and  impromptu,  she  managed  to 
achieve  an  enfant  terrible  reputation,  of  which  she  was  as  vain 
as  younger  girls  of  their  conquests.  Men  called  her  "  a  sport," 
and  would  often  drop  into  a  chair  by  her  side,  with  the  latest 
chuckle  from  Town  Topics  or  the  Pink  'JJn  — "  Nothing  shocks 
Stella  Marcus,  you  know!  "...  and  certainly,  as  far  as  any- 
thing verbal  was  concerned,  Stella  fancied  herself  well  in  the 
van  of  the  New  Movement.  But  she  did  not  realize  that  lip- 
service  was  no  longer  vassal  to  emancipation;  and  that:  "  Do 
shocking  things,  not  say  them  all  day  long,"  was  the  up-to- 
date  rendering  of  Kingsley's  advice;  did  not  realize,  in  fact, 
that  for  all  her  breathless  determination,  she  was  not  quite  able 
to  catch  up  with  Deb's  generation. 

Deb!  ...  of  necessity  she  could  not  stand  for  a  cipher  in 
Stella's  emotions;  was  bound  to  arouse  love  or  hatred  .  .  . 
perhaps  the  conflict  was  not  yet  finally  decided.  For  Deb  was 
not  only  the  daughter  she  might  have  borne  —  if  Hermann 
Marcus  had  not  interposed  his  bulky  will  between  Stella  and 
Stella's  destiny,  but  also  the  girl  she  might  have  been  —  again 
if  Hermann  had  taken  the  same  views  of  fatherhood  as  Ferdie, 
Out  of  the  non-fulfilment  of  Stella's  existence  had  arisen  Deb's 
present  Paradise  of  liberty;  Stella  herself  perceived  that:  her- 
self the  ashes  and  Deb  the  gaily-plumaged  phoenix.  Ferdie,  as 
a  father,  needed  the  tragic  example  afforded  him  by  his  elder 
sister  unmarried  —  for  marriage,  when  it  is  obviously  a  voca- 
tion squ£uidered,  is  as  true  tragedy  as  the  squandering  of  some 
great  gift.  Stella  by  nature  had  been  just  such  a  girl  as  Deb 
was  now.  .  .  .  And  she  did  not  hate  Deb,  nor  use  her  authority 
to  baulk  the  girl  where  herself  had  been  baulked.  To  her 
credit,  she  took  instead  a  fierce,  yet  half-amused  pride  in 
flaunting  Deb's  emancipation  from  control,  before  the  grimly 
disapproving  glare  of  Deb's  grandfather;  it  was  revenge  by 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  47 

proxy.  ..."  You  prevented  me  from  acting  thus  —  and  thus 
—  and  thus  —  You  have  no  power  here.  Look  —  and  look 
again:  this  is  what  I  should  have  been,  this  is  what  I  should 
have  done.  But  all  the  spilt  joy  has  been  gathered  into  an- 
other cup  —  and  yours  are  no  more  the  fingers  at  the  handle!  " 
...  So  Stella's  long-shaped  greenish  eyes  danced  their  word- 
less triumph  at  her  father;  while  Deb,  innocent  of  interplay, 
was  frankly  and  chummily  telling  Ferdie  about  some  success- 
ful impertinence  of  girlhood. 

She  did  not  hate  Deb.  She  did  not  love  her  either  —  at  least, 
not  in  any  tender  lullaby  ways.  If  she  exulted  in  Deb's  hap- 
piness, promoted  it  wherever  possible,  defended  her  against 
aggressive  comment,  nevertheless  she  was  curiously  aware  all 
the  time  that  the  relations  between  herself  and  Deb  had  not 
reached  completion;  were  hovering  on  the  verge  of  something 
fundamental  and  savage  of  either  love  or  hatred  —  she  did  not 
know.  Meanwhile  Deb,  in  her  lordly  childishness,  was  heartily 
fond  of  Aunt  Stel;  and  people  remarked  how  nice  it  was  that 
Miss  Marcus  and  her  niece  were  almost  like  sisters  together ! 

It  was  Stella  who  arranged  that  they  should  temporarily 
move  into  a  boarding-house  till  Mr.  Marcus  was  able  to  ascer- 
tain more  exactly  what  his  very  reduced  income  was  likely  to 
be.  Some  of  his  money  was  invested  abroad,  and  nobody  knew 
how  long  the  war  would  last.  ...  It  was  best  not  to  enter  upon 
a  definite  mode  of  living  just  now;  and  she  did  not  care  about 
house-keeping  in  apartments;  their  own  house,  or  nothing. 

Montagu  Hall  in  South  Kensington  would  do  very  well;  she 
and  Deb  were  each  to  have  a  small  single  room;  Ferdinand 
shared  a  double  bedroom  with  his  father,  who  required  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  attention  and  nursing.  Richard  was  going  to 
spend  Christmas  with  the  Dunnes,  and  therefore  need  not  be 
considered  till  the  Easter  holidays;  and  perhaps  by  then.  .  .  . 

Stella  Marcus,  for  all  her  caustic,  jesting  shrewdness,  was 
not  aware  that  those  who  once  acquire  the  boarding-house  habit 
will  continue  to  say  from  season  to  season,  from  anniversary  to 
anniversary,  from  year  to  year:  "  Perhaps  by  then  .  .  .";  will 
never  own  that  they  have  settled  down  to  unsettlement. 


48  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

They  drew  up  with  all  their  baggage  at  about  five  o'clock  on 
the  second  of  January.  As  the  front  door  was  opened  to  them, 
a  voice  from  the  hall  rasped  out  into  the  foggy  air: 

"  —  I  like  a  dog  to  be  a  dog,  not  —  Shut  that  door,  can't 
you?  .  .  .  Oh,  I  see " 

Three  men  were  standing  about  in  the  hall,  smoking.  The 
owner  of  the  rasp  also  possessed  a  long  domed  head,  crude 
pink  where  the  hair  had  worn  away  on  top,  and  a  face  of  the 
same  nursery  pink,  ploughed  by  implacable  lines  of  opinion 
and  ill-humour.  He  stopped  his  complaint,  and  stared  with 
curiosity  at  the  newcomers  passing  through  the  hall. 


CHAPTER   IV 


DEB  knelt  in  front  of  the  squat  sturdy  oil-stove  with 
"  Cora  "  gold-lettered  across  its  front,  and  began  care- 
fully to  trickle  a  supply  of  kerosene  into  the  tank. 
Cora  was  essential  to  the  evening's  enjoyment  of  her  three 
votaries;  their  friendship  grouped  itself  round  her  personality, 
and  Aunt  Stella,  whose  wit  ran  fatally  in  the  direction  of  pun- 
ning, had  even  dared  to  nickname  their  union  the  Chorus. 

Deb  knelt,  perplexed,  musing,  a  vestal  before  the  altar.  . 

Cora  was  six  weeks  old,  and  was  just  losing  her  first  frag 
ranee  when  Deb  bought  her.  ..."  Does  any  one  want  an  oil 
stove  cheap?  "  she  demanded,  rushing  like  tragedy  upon  the  as 
sembled  company  in  the  lounge  of  Montagu  Hall  Hotel 
"  With  saucepan,  feeder,  gallon-can,  and  all  my  illusions,  com 
plete  for  five-and-tenpence?  " 

"  My  dear  child !  "  cried  Stella,  "  Cora  has  been  yours  for 
exactly  half  a  day." 

Deb  sank  down  despairingly  on  the  fender-seat.  "  Five- 
and-eightpence,"  she  amended.  Then,  darkly:  "To  be  bested 
by  a  rotten  little  piece  of  ironmongery  one  foot  by  two !  " 

"Does  she  smell?"  Jenny  Carew  exclaimed  impulsively; 
"oh,  then  something  must  be  wrong  with  her."  (They  com- 
mented afterwards  how  queer  it  was  that  never  for  an  instant 
had  Cora  been  "it"  to  any  of  them;  always  "her.")  "Do 
let  me  take  her  to  pieces  for  you,  and  put  her  together  again. 
Do  let  me.  Miss  Marcus.  I  haven't  had  a  thrill  for  ages.  And 
if  I  fail  I'll  buy  the  fragment  for  Bobby  to  play  with.  Dolph, 
who  did  we  last  lend  our  screw-driver  to?  " 

Her  husband,  morose  and  bearded,  was  not  interested  in 
Cora.     "  Somebody  who  hasn't  given  it  back." 

49 


50  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  All  right,  Mrs.  Carew ;  and  you  can  have  the  bits  for  Bobby 
anyway,  when  you've  thrilled  long  enough.  /  don't  want  the 
little  brute,  whole  or  in  pieces;  I  would  have  thrown  her  out 
of  the  window,  but  just  at  that  moment  she  threw  me  out  at  the 
door.     She  certainly  has  character,  and  a  perfumed  soul,  and 

—  and  I  was  so  happy,  carrying  her  home  in  my  arms  this 
morning." 

Some  one  spoke  indolently  from  the  deepest  armchair  at  the 
best  corner  of  the  fire.  "  Miss  Marcus,  I'll  buy  your  disillu- 
sion for  five-and-eightpence." 

"Will  you?  Will  you  really?  Do  you  want  her?  "  Deb 
looked  across  at  him  shyly.  The  soldier  had  not  been  long  at 
Montagu  Hall;  rarely  spoke,  except,  lately,  to  Jenny;  and  gen- 
erally did  not  give  an  impression  that  he  could  be  stimulated 
from  a  state  of  sunken  lethargy  for  anybody  on  earth. 

"  Not  for  myself.  Heaven  forbid !  But  my  men  are  always 
shouting  for  more  stoves.  Doubt  if  even  Cora  could  throw  half 
a  hundred  lusty  fusiliers  out  of  their  recreation  room.  I'll 
have  a  look  at  her,  if  I  may." 

He  and  Jenny  and  Deb  went  up  to  the  second  floor  to  inspect 
Cora. 

"  There  she  is  already  .  .  ."  mourned  Deb,  on  the  first  floor 
landing. 

Presently  the  three  of  them  were  standing  with  gaze  fixed 
in  fascinated  silence  upon  the  object  for  purchase.  There  was 
no  other  illumination  in  the  room;  Cora  cast  her  spells  in  hard 
blocks  of  white  light  and  black  shadow.  .  .  . 

A  boarding-house  —  an  oil-stove  —  the  soldier  —  Jenny  Ca- 
rew—  it  struck  Deb  from  what  a  bizarre  rag-bag  romance  drew 
its  patchwork  pieces.  She  stole  a  look  at  Burton  Ames ;  he  was 
old;  possibly  about  forty-six;  and  had  an  air  of  being  neglected 

—  neglectful:  his  khaki  slouched  over  his  chunky  shoulders; 
his  hair,  grizzled  fawn,  was  disordered  and  ragged;  the  cor- 
ners of  his  eyes  gathered  into  wrinkles.  Not  young,  not  suc- 
cessful, not  handsome,  and  married  .  .  .  she  had  heard  him 
mention  a  wife  somewhere  in  the  West  Country.  .  .  .  Prepos- 
terous that  even  for  five  swift  seconds  she  should  have  received 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  51 

an  impression  that  the  big  thing  might  be  hidden  here  for  her  — 

And  then  she  saw  that  Jenny's  charming  little  gamin  face  was 
alive,  and  warm,  and  flickering  as  firelight;  roguery  achase 
round  her  lips;  tears  on  her  brown,  blunt  lashes;  promise  and 
mutiny  and  tenderness  .  .  .  what  was  the  matter  with  Jenny? 
Slowly  the  soldier's  hand  came  out  and  closed  tightly  round 
her  arm,  just  above  the  elbow.  .  .  .  Deb,  still  watching,  almost 
winced  at  sight  of  the  grip.  .  .  . 

And  then  Ames  let  go;  and  flung  himself  down  in  the  arm- 
chair close  at  hand;  and  said,  with  the  content  of  a  man  who 
unexpectedly  finds  sanctuary:  "  Let's  stop  up  here.  We  don't 
want  other  people.  I'm  sick  of  the  trail  of  other  people  lit- 
tering the  house.     I  like  it  up  here." 

Yes  —  but  where  was  the  place  for  Deb,  in  Deb's  room? 

She  had  no  need  of  married  people;  took  it  for  granted  that 
the  married  man  cannot  lead  by  splendid  sun-beaten  ways  to 
finality;  that  a  married  woman  has  ever  the  advantage  over 
a  maid,  by  won  tranquillity  of  experience.  She  had  no  need 
of  these  two.  Then  why  did  they  leave  it  lying  about  under 
her  notice  .  .  .  whatever  it  was  they  had  found?  The  at- 
mosphere was  neither  amorous  nor  exotic;  but  Deb  had  an 
impression  as  though  the  eternal  man  and  woman  had  just 
come  home;  and  that  at  any  moment  he  might  commit  some 
little  commonplace  act  —  slip  off  his  coat  and  hand  it  to 
Jenny  to  be  mended,  to  make  significant  the  fact  that  they  were 
man  and  woman  come  home  — 

—  In  her  room.  Petulantly  she  turned  away  from  sight  of 
Jenny's  face  .  .  .  could  she  reach  the  door  and  get  out  before 
Jenny's  lidded  emotions  brimmed  over  into  action? — Too 
late!  .  .  .  Jenny's  arms  were  strangling  Deb,  Jenny's  scorching 
lips  were  on  Deb's  cheek  and  neck,  Jenny's  half -sobbing  half- 
laughing  runs  and  murmurings  of  incoherence  were  thrown 
upon  the  unnatural  silence  ..."  You  darling  —  darling  — 
darling!  I've  wanted  to  hug  you  like  this  since  the  first  night 
you  crept  into  the  lounge.  You're  such  a  beautiful  little  thing 
.  .  .  isn't  she?  Isn't  she?  Oh,  I'm  so  happy  you're  here  — 
do  let's  all  three  be  pals  —  I  hate  every  one  else  in  this  beastly 


62  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

place  .  .  .  little  funny,  sorrowful,  creamy  kid,  I  like  you  —  I 
like  you " 

And  all  the  while  her  eyes  were  on  the  soldier.  And  all  this 
boundless  slippery  exuberance  was  for  the  soldier  —  at  the 
soldier  —  it  did  not  matter  upon  what  pretext  it  vented  itself. 
Warmth  and  excitement  to  spare  for  Deb  too  .  .  .  Deb  felt 
this,  or  she  would  have  torn  herself  away  from  the  embrace 
.  .  .  but  Jenny  was  wholly  unconscious  that  she  was  making 
love  to  a  man  with  a  girl  as  the  intermediary;  she  was  no 
self-analyst.  But  the  soldier  and  Deb,  in  one  look  exchanged, 
established  that  mental  kinship  which  exists  between  those  who 
see  things  alike  introspectively  and  from  the  outside  view;  with 
meaning  duplicated  and  tripled;  made  grotesque  by  circum- 
stance or  contrast;  backwards  from  the  future,  and  twisted  this 
way  and  that  by  imps  of  irony;  kinship  of  those  who  can  see 
with  the  chill  impersonality  of  gods  on  Olympus,  and  also  with 
pointed  application  to  their  own  tiny  scheme  of  things ;  restless 
subtle  kinship  of  those  who  dream  and  those  who  question. 

And  even  as  they  silently  hailed  each  other,  he  smiling  a 
little  under  his  fair  drawn  eyebrows,  and  she  very  serious; 
hailed  each  other  through  the  froth  and  tumble  of  Jenny's 
excited  talk,  the  white  light  which  rayed  the  ceilings  and  walls 
of  the  room,  was  sucked  into  soft  inky  chokiness.  .  .  . 

"  Little  beast  has  gone  out,"  commented  the  soldier,  in  dis- 
respectful reference  to  Cora.  "  Light  her  again,  and  let's  sit 
round  and  be  comfortable." 

II 

Of  course  Deb  did  not  sell  Cora. 

Round  Cora  they  hacked  a  sort  of  intimate  privacy,  with 
privileges  for  their  trio  alone.  Cora  was  their  excuse,  the 
ostentatious  cause  of  their  withdrawal  from  the  rest  of  the 
boarding-house:  they  were  going  to  smoke  a  cigarette  with 
Cora;  they  were  going  to  fry  potatoes  on  Cora;  Cora  was  de- 
pressed, and  needed  the  instalment  of  a  fresh  wick.  Perhaps 
they  rather  overdid  Cora;  but  the  intangible  need  binding  them 
together  needed  to  solve  itself  into  tangible  expression.     Cora, 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  53 

whether  as  an  exaggerated  joke  or  a  temperamental  goddess, 
was  .  .  .  convenient.  "  Are  you  coming  home  to  Cora  to- 
night? "  or  "  I  saw  Cora  was  lit,  so  I  walked  in!  "  Deb  was 
High  Priestess  of  the  Oil-can;  Jenny,  principal  engineer  and 
mechanic;  and  the  soldier  serenely  enjoyed  results,  as  was 
typical  of  him. 

And  then  Stella  Marcus  crystallized  their  dependence  on  the 
Cora  legend  into  a  pun.  They  took  up  the  nickname  — "  The 
Chorus  meets  tonight!" — schoolgirlish  methods  of  allusion 
.  .  .  but  Jenny  and  the  soldier  had  been  battered  by  realities, 
and  welcomed  the  silliness  of  their  present  relapse.  And  Deb, 
her  soul  a  responsive  barometer,  sank  alternately  to  the  sol- 
dier's semi-humorous  apathy  of  nothing-worth-while,  and  leapt 
again  to  Jenny's  soaring  irresponsibility. 

The  soldier  had  been  thus  labelled  by  Deb  in  the  spirit  of 
irony,  when  he  told  her  that  he  had  been  twenty-three  years  in 
the  army,  and  was  not,  as  she  had  at  first  imagined,  one  of  that 
gallant  mushroom  crop  raised  by  the  call  of  war.  He  had  been 
in  India  and  South  Africa,  Aden,  Singapore,  Malta  and  Gib- 
raltar. It  was  diflScult  to  conceive  of  any  one  less  of  the  ac- 
cepted military  type:  an  individualist  of  the  let-me-alone  order; 
an  atheist;  a  keen  but  destructive  logician;  a  hopelessly  roman- 
tic pessimist;  he  could  not  understand  ready-made  standards 
of  conduct,  of  honour,  of  conviviality;  would  not  conform  to 
the  prevalent  disposition  to  flock  together,  pray  together,  stand 
or  fall  together.  A  soldier,  even  a  good  soldier,  without  esprit 
de  corps,  was  a  deplorable  spectacle;  hardly  likely  to  prove  an 
acquisition  to  the  mess.  His  fellow-officers,  after  a  perplexed 
interval  of  acquaintance,  were  wont  to  pronounce  him  a  rum 
beast.  To  which,  very  occasionally,  was  made  the  resentful 
addition :  "  Tries  to  be  funny  " —  when  Burton  Ames  un- 
leashed his  weary  but  mordant  form  of  humour.  He  was  more 
popular  with  his  men,  who  appreciated  the  eccentric  interest 
he  was  prone  to  waste  on  them  singly  and  as  persons,  how- 
ever much  he  depreciated  them  collectively. 

Fitly,  he  should  have  been  apprenticed  to  some  trade  or  pro- 
fession which  combined  the  essentials  of  a  sailor,  an  explorer. 


54  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

a  landed  proprietor,  a  heniiit  and  a  carpenter.     The  career  of 
Robinson  Crusoe  answered  all  requisites  to  perfection.  .  .  . 

Out  of  Deb's  little  crowded  room,  made  vivid  by  her  own 
books  and  pictures,  he  created  for  himself  a  sort  of  amateur 
desert  island,  away  from  the  gregarious  herd  in  the  smoking- 
room   and   lounge  and   drawing-room   downstairs.     His   own 
room  was  bare  and  uncomfortable,  as  only  a  soldier's  can  be 
who  has  many  times  shifted  camp,  and  without  a  woman  to 
look  after  him.     And  Jenny's  larger  room  was  liable  to  intru- 
sions from  Dolph  and  Bobby.     But  in  Deb's  room  he  hung  cur- 
tains, and  fiddled  with  Cora,  and  altered  furniture,  and  smoked 
his  pipe,  and  examined  books,  and  listened  to  Deb's  wicked 
imitations  of  their  fellow-boarders,  and  cooked  potatoes  by  his 
own  home-made  method  of  so  many  heart-beats  to  the  moment 
and  so  many  moments  to  the  boil,  and  confided  in  Deb  and 
Jenny  his  love  of  complete  solitude,  with  ever-deepening  tran- 
quillity of  mood.     Sometimes  they  all  went  out  together  on 
some  impromptu  ramble  leading  to  Hampstead  Heath  or  a  cin- 
ema or  a  coffee-stall.     But  usually  they  were  to  be  found  in  a 
careless  group  roimd  Cora;  Burton  Ames  lumbering  in  the  only 
armchair;  one  figure  a-sprawl  on  the  bed;  the  other  flopped 
on  the  floor;  accommodation  of  the  soldier's  huge  inert  limbs 
reducing  to  nil  the  already  limited  space.     A  clammy  Febru- 
ary and  bleak  March  urged  a  desire  to  huddle,  morally  and 
actually.     It  was  scarcely  possible  for  one  of  them  to  make  a 
movement  without  brushing  against  one  of  the  others.  .  .  . 
Sometimes  Dolph  would  meander  into  the  room  in  funereal 
quest  of  his  wife;  and  sometimes  Aunt  Stella  left  her  rubber 
of  bridge  to  exchange  a  few  jokes  with  Major  Ames.     But  for 
the  most  part  they  were  tacitly  left  alone,  or  unjustly  alluded 
to  as  a  "  noisy  gang  "  by  Mr.  Gryce,  whose  room  was  below 
theirs. 

Ferdie  Marcus  was  far  too  glad  that  Deb  was  occupied  and 
amused  to  question  the  propriety  of  this  bedroom  intimacy. 
If  all  had  gone  well,  if  there  had  been  no  war,  the  poor  child 
would  have  continued  in  possession  of  her  own  sitting-room  in 
"  Daisybanks,"  where  she  had  formerly  received  her  friends  — 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  55 

"  ragged  "  with  her  friends  was  the  mysterious  term  applied  — 
Ferdie  had,  of  course,  appropriated  it  to  his  own  use:  "  Na, 
my  darling,  did  you  have  a  good  rag  this  evening?  "...  He 
gathered  she  was  having  a  "rag"  now;  it  was  natural  to  her 
age;  but  everything  that  Deb  did,  he  whittled  to  fit  this  assump- 
tion of  nature  —  only  natural  that  the  child  should  want  to  be 
out  —  only  natural  that  the  child  should  want  to  be  at  home  — 
"Leave  them  alone,  Stella;  Jenny  Carew  is  always  present;  it 
is  only  natural  that  Deb  likes  the  company  of  young  folk. 
Forty-six,  is  he?  All  the  belter,  then;  a  harmless  fogey,  almost 
as  old  as  I  am;  it  livens  him  up  to  be  with  Deb  and  the  pretty 
little  Carew  —  tells  them  tales  of  war  ...  ho!  ho!  the  new 
Othello.  Only,  Stella  .  .  .  Papa  need  not  know  what  is  go- 
ing on  —  wass?     He  would  not  understand." 

Harmless?  Certainly  Burton  Ames  intended  to  be  harm- 
less. He  did  not  believe  himself  in  love  with  either  Deb  or 
Jenny.  He  valued  them  for  their  companionship,  for  their 
interest  in  himself,  for  their  distinct  and  unique  personalities. 
They  were  a  stimulating  find  among  the  heterogeneous  nomads 
of  boarding-houses.  He  thought  he  liked  them  as  two  charm- 
ing boys.  With  his  scorn  for  platitudes  and  for  platitudinous 
happenings,  he  underrated  the  dangers  of  propinquity.  If  one 
were  careful  .  .  .  his  careful  attitude  was  his  undoing;  it 
goaded  Jenny  and  Deb  out  of  shelter.  They  knew  well  enough 
that  from  their  reliance  on  —  well,  on  Cora,  was  sure  to  arise 
this  equation  of  danger ;  they  courted  it,  hunted  it,  even.  Ames 
was  such  an  insistently  masculine  factor  in  that  room;  a  girl's 
room.  The  very  rough  feel  of  his  sleeve  —  Jenny  knew  .  .  . 
every  time  she  moved.  .  .  .  And  she  was  a  restless  creature, 
for  ever  thrilling  her  wings. 

Jenny  was  just  an  atom  of  life-force,  twinkling  wildly,  all  the 
time,  in  every  direction;  jostling  to  be  noticed,  petted,  admired; 
a  gyrating  dizzy  mote  in  the  sunslant;  a  savage  little  brown 
bundle  of  sexual  impulses.  That  was  primarily  Jenny.  Fun- 
nily opposed  to  this,  some  of  her  instincts  and  education  and 
ways  of  speech  were  those  of  the  typical  suburban  sparrow: 


56'  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

she  was  suspicious  of  people  who  could  correctly  pronounce 
foreign  languages ;  scoffed  at  what  she  called  "  high-brow 
stuff."  What  else  was  Jenny  than  this?  Most  of  all,  perhaps, 
an  insatiable  mother;  wearing  herself  out  in  service  to  any 
one  sick  or  bothered;  proud  of  these  calls  on  her  reputation 
for  quick  practical  efficiency.  Cooking,  bandaging,  scrub- 
bing —  she  had  five  brains  on  each  hand.  Her  notion  of  spoil- 
ing a  beloved  person  was  by  virtue  of  touch  ...  a  smother  of 
kisses  .  .  .  chair  and  cushions  and  fire  .  .  .  healing  contact 
of  warm  flesh  upon  flesh  .  .  .  cosseting  ways  that  were  all 
the  realities  she  knew  or  cared  about.  "  That  sort  of  rubbish 
never  did  any  one  a  bit  of  good!  "  she  would  interrupt  with 
almost  shrewish  impatience,  when  Deb  and  the  soldier  were 
astray  in  realms  ethical  or  fantastic.  Life  was  four  walls  and 
a  roof  —  babies  within,  and  the  smell  of  dinner,  and  sacrifice, 
and  somebody  crying,  and  body's  pain.  ...  A  little  fun  to 
be  squeezed  in  at  the  cracks;  fun  that  was  substantial,  and  never 
ethereal;  fun  that  was  crowds  and  a  pretty  dress,  a  waltz, 
chocolates,  a  bottle  of  wine,  a  ride  in  a  motor-car.  .  .  . 

And  love  was  just  touch  again  —  for  Jenny. 

Jenny  had  no  reserves  and  no  discrimination ;  she  could  has- 
tily damn  a  stranger  to  perdition  without  any  attempt  at  sane 
reasoning  —  and  a  week  later  one  would  find  her  impenitently 
ensconced  at  the  other  extreme  of  judgment.  She  was  not  ac- 
tually beautiful:  a  small,  round  head,  and  a  small  round  chin; 
brown  sloe  eyes  tilted  at  the  outer  corners;  round  the  eyes  and 
mouth  a  crinkling  resemblance,  mirthful,  mournful,  to  a  baby 
monkey;  Bobby,  her  young  son,  had  inherited  this.  But  her 
eyebrows  were  delicate  umber  sickles  on  the  low  white  forehead. 
And  she  could  look  all  things  in  a  second's  space  of  time. 

Jenny  had  been  given  sordid  tragedy  for  her  lot  on  earth: 
poverty  of  the  shoddiest  kind;  illness  that  had  brought  her  three 
times  gaspingly  close  to  death.  And  she  had  come  out  well  in 
the  test  .  .  .  better,  perhaps,  than  a  schooled  philosopher. 
Loyal  to  Dolph,  competent  in  the  bread-struggle,  plucky  in  the 
very  extremities  of  pain.  To  Deb  and  the  soldier  she  was  a 
sort  of  Complete  Home  on  tour.     He,  especially,  seemed  to  rely 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  57 

on  her  for  the  daily  wants  of  an  ordinary  man  adrift  and  ill. 
For  he  was  already  a  victim  of  the  war;  shell-shock  and  neuras- 
thenia had  left  him  incompetent  for  any  more  strenuous  job 
than  his  present  light  ordnance  duties.  Jenny  rejoiced  in  the 
very  egoism  which  brought  him  to  her  at  all  times  with  some 
slow  ponderous  helplessness  to  confide:  "Look  here  —  what 
am  I  to  do?  " — She  gave  prodigally,  without  thought  of  bar- 
ter. And  as  between  her  husband  and  Ames  existed  that  casual 
masculine  friendship  which  blooms  mainly  on  the  borrowing 
and  lending  of  matches,  she  was  able,  under  cover  of  this,  to 
cosset  him  to  her  heart's  content;  run  into  his  room  with  soup 
and  custards  when  he  was  laid  up,  ask  for  his  clothes  to  patch 
and  darn  —  all  the  little  real  things  .  .  .  advantages  of  a  mar- 
ried woman  again.  .  .  .  Deb  fretted  against  her  own  disabili- 
ties. It  seemed  that  Jenny,  without  cheapening  herself  in  the 
soldier's  esteem,  could  softly  trail  her  fingers  across  his  fur- 
rowed brows  .  .  .  murmur:  "Darling,  how  hot  your  head 
is!  "  .  .  .  Deb's  modesty  bled  in  scarlet  on  her  cheeks  and 
neck.  Jenny,  how  can  you?  how  can  you?  .  .  .  and  oh,  if  I 
could  only  do  the  same!  But  she  was  still  dream-crusted  with 
the  convention  that  a  man  shall  avow,  and  a  girl  deny  or  con- 
cede; could  not  force  herself  to  reverse  the  process,  even  though 
Jenny  scored  —  scored  all  the  time.  .  .  .  The  soldier's  head  lay 
for  an  instant  drawn  back  against  Jenny's  shoulder.  Jenny, 
magically  stilled  by  the  contact,  was  crooning  a  song  that  the 
sea  might  have  composed  to  the  beloved  vessel  at  last  in  har- 
bour. Deb,  wistful  of  the  other's  frank  facility  in  wooing, 
redly  ashamed  lest  the  soldier  should  despise  it,  hating  Jenny 
for  giving  him  cause  to  despise  it,  mutinous  at  her  own  in- 
stinctive adherence  to  girlhood's  creed.  Deb  whispered  to  her- 
self in  promise  for  this  empty  moment:  "When  I  am  mar- 
ried. .  .  ." 

Ill 

"  When  I  am  married  " —  and  marriage  is  found  with  love 
as  surely  as  the  picture-coupon  in  the  opened  packet  of  ciga- 
rettes, inessential  but  inevitable.     Yet  here  she  had  fallen  in 


58  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

love  where  no  ultimate  together-being  was  possible;  even  no 
passionate  response  forthcoming.  Then  was  this  love  at  all? 
—  hitherto  accepted  as  a  divided  flame  burning  to  some  splen- 
did fulfilment. 

Deb  knelt  in  front  of  Cora,  perplexed,  musing;  a  vestal  be- 
fore the  altar.  What  if  she  had  envisioned  the  altar  of  ro- 
mance as  a  mountain-peak  in  the  sunset?  Here  it  was  a  mat 
before  an  oil-stove.  An  altar,  nevertheless,  where  she  made 
painful  sacrifice  of  illusion.  For  love  was  complete  in  itself, 
without  past  or  future.  She  might  not  put  eager  question,  be- 
fore admitting  love:  is  he  young?  is  he  free?  does  he  care? 
does  it  hold  chance  of  the  final  happiness?  But  she  must  ac- 
cept it,  barren  and  bitter  and  an  unshared  burden,  a  journey 
without  ultimate  lure  of  rest.  Love  was  the  big  thing  —  the 
conviction  remained.  Only  she  had  thought  it  conditional. 
And  it  was  absolute. 

.  .  .  Slowly  she  lit  a  match,  and  applied  it  to  the  wick. 
From  the  mirrors  and  walls  of  the  many-cornered  room,  a 
dozen  Debs  rendered  variation  of  her  dense  black  hair,  her 
thick  storm-grey  eyes,  and  lustreless  ivory  skin.  For  Deb's 
looks  were  of  that  mutable  type  which  inspired  every  fourth- 
rate  art  faddist  to  paint  her  Holding  a  Melon;  or  in  a  Blue 
Jacket;  or  with  head  flung  back  against  their  favourite  bit  of 
Chinese  drapery;  or  absorbed  in  the  contents  of  a  dust-bin 
(symbolic  realism) ;  or  as  a  figure  on  an  Egyptian  frieze;  or  as 
Mary  Magdalene;  or  as  a  Wood-nymph  pursued  by  Silenus;  or 
as  a  coster  girl  dancing  to  a  barrel  organ  by  naphtha-lights;  or 
merely  as  "  Deborah,  an  Impression  " —  till  the  sight  of  Deb 
herself  was  a  repose  from  these  fantastic  and  distorted  relics 
of  pre-war  art-phases. 

Deb  as  Reverie  of  a  Girl,  was  so  absorbed  that  she  let  the 
match  burn  down  to  her  fingers  before  she  was  recalled  to  ac- 
tualities. Quickly  she  let  it  drop;  and  at  the  same  moment 
Jenny  rushed  in : 

"The  Chorus  is  off^  for  tonight.  Deb;  isn't  it  a  shame? 
Mad'm  lloraine  is  giving  a  squawking  party  in  her  room,  and 
you  and  I  have  been  specially  invited." 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  59 

This  was  catastrophe. 

"Oh  Jenny  —  must  we?     Hasn't  she  invited  the  soldier?  " 

"  Out  of  compliment  to  us  two,  yes.  But  she  can't  stick 
him,  really,  because  he  doesn't  jimap  about  opening  doors  like 
a  foreign  monkey-on-a-stick." 

"  I  wish  he  would  open  some  doors  —  tonight.  I  know  ex- 
actly what  will  happen,  Jenny:  La  llorraine  will  say:  'Come, 
now  we  will  be  truly  cosy !  ' —  and  immediately  block  all  forms 
of  ventilation.  And  then  she'll  sing  as  if  she  were  let  loose 
again  in  the  Paris  opera-house,  and  I  sha'n't  know  if  it's  my 
head  bursting,  or  the  walls  and  ceiling,  or  her  voice.  Old 
Gryce  will  object,  and  so  will  grandpapa,  but  they  won't  take 
any  steps,  because  each  one  will  be  afraid  of  putting  a  stop  to 
something  that  is  annoying  the  other  more  than  himself " 

"  Darling  idiot,  why  did  you  ever  say  you  wished  you  could 
hear  her  sing?  " 

Deb  wailed :  "  I  didn't  know  that  it  meant  a  prima-donna's 
powerful  mezzo-soprano  in  a  bed-sittingroom  already  contain- 
ing two  suites  of  Louis  Quinze  furniture,  and  forty-two  cases 
of  fur  cloaks,  and  a  permanent  dog  with  permanent  asthma, 
and  an  anthracite  stove  fire,  and  a  grand  piano,  and  compli- 
cated domestic  arrangements  for  producing  food  at  a  moment's 
notice,  and  a  clothes-line,  and  litter  from  their  last  year's  va- 
riety entertainment,  and  My  Child  My  Solace  complete  with 
curls " 

Jenny  stopped  laughing  as  the  last  item  was  catalogued. 
"  Dolph's  potty  about  her.  .  ,  ." 

"About  Manon  .  .  ."  Deb  nodded  gravely.  She  and 
everybody  else  had  noticed  what  was  so  blatantly  happening. 
She  cuddled  on  the  floor  beside  Jenny's  knees,  and  leant  her 
cheek  against  the  other's  dangling  hand;  then  she  slid  her  lips 
along  the  smooth  warm  arm  the  whole  way  up  to  the  elbow. 
.  .  .  One  comforted  Jenny  by  Jenny's  own  methods. 

For  the  coming  of  La  lloraine  and  her  daughter  to  the  sec- 
ond floor  of  Montagu  Hall  Hotel  had  made  a  difference  to  the 
Chorus.  It  was  not  so  tight-fitting.  A  rival  cluster  of  in- 
timacy had  been  established  by  the  newcomers,  Stella  Marcus, 


60  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

and  Dolph  Carew;  and  Jenny  was  perforce  drawn  into  it  from 
time  to  time  .  .  .  Dolph  was  insistent  that  she  should  be  kind 
to  Manon,  aged  sixteen.  And  La  llorraine,  with  her  over- 
powering conviviality,  had  sought  to  make  an  undivided  bohe- 
mian  settlement  out  of  the  bedroom  inhabitants  of  the  second 
floor;  all  doors  open  at  all  times,  and  a  general  pooling  of 
minor  difficulties.  ..."  Now  Stella,  my  dee-urr,  will  you  be 
kind  and  count  me  that  washing  while  Manon  play  with  Bobby 
Carew  and  I  buy  a  von-deriul  cream  cheese  for  the  Countess 
who  dejeuners  with  me  in  my  room  today.  Then  need  I  say, 
my  dee-urr,  that  I  expect  you  to  com'  in  and  share."  And 
Stella,  who  took  delight  in  La  llorraine,  replied:  "  Chere 
Madame,  you  are  as  generous  with  your  Countess  as  with 
your  cheese." 

La  llorraine  stood  for  the  Continent,  as  the  Continent  ached 
in  the  memory  of  those  who  had  loved  it  before  1914.  Not 
for  any  one  country  or  another,  but  for  all  the  gay  cities:  Paris, 
Vienna,  Berlin,  Rome,  St.  Petersburg  .  .  .  irrespective  of  the 
distinctions  of  war.  Actually,  she  was  born  in  some  small  town 
on  the  divisions  of  Russia  and  Poland.  Her  present  appella- 
tion, which  covered  stage  and  private  use,  could,  in  its  initial 
eccentricity,  only  be  explained  by  the  admiration  awakened  in 
her  on  first  encounter  with  floulkes,  ffolliott,  and  ffrench.  .  .  . 
"  My  dee-urr,  but  what  an  advertisement!  Bah  —  I  know  how 
to  catch  that  public  by  the  ear.  They  are  swine,  I  tell  you  .  .  . 
but  this  will  br-r-ring  them  in  millions.  You  will  see!  "  So 
she  became  La  llorraine.  And  as  La  llorraine,  she  stood  for 
every  aspect  of  continental  life;  garret,  and  hotel  and  court; 
grande  dame,  and  then  third-rate  mummer;  the  popular  artiste, 
or  the  good  thrifty  woman  who  can  cook  succulent  dishes  for 
her  household.  Physically,  she  was  built  on  a  magnificent 
scale,  and  always  wore  plain  and  expensive  black  —  save  for 
breakfast,  when  she  horrified  the  boarding-house  by  appearing 
in  a  soiled  dressing-gown,  red-and-gold  Turkish  slippers,  and  a 
knitted  blue  woollen  shawl  over  the  short  dyed  yellow  hair 
which  formed  such  a  crazy  mop  to  her  clear-cut  aristocratic 
face,  long  and  pale,  with  kind  eyes  and   delicate,  sneering 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  61 

mouth.  There  was  no  adventure  of  the  demi-monde  too  lurid 
for  imagination  to  cast  her  as  heroine;  and  against  that  she 
could  whisper  mysterious  tales  of  court  intrigue,  and  call 
Grand-Dukes  by  their  pet  names,  with  an  air  that  betrayed  her 
a  careless  participant  of  their  intimate  revels. 

Fiercely  she  adored  Manon,  whose  hair  hung  in  streaked 
yellow  curls  over  her  shoulders,  and  from  whose  red,  greedy 
little  wolf's  mouth  one  could  envisage  the  dart  of  a  red  pointed 
Jittle  tongue.  Manon  fulfilled  all  expectations  as  the  foreign 
ingenue:  soft,  lisping  voice,  demure  eyelids.  In  a  frequent 
spasm  of  recollection,  La  llorraine  would  dismiss  her  from  the 
room  when  the  conversation  was  too  adult  for  due  preservation 
of  a  maiden's  bloom;  but  on  those  occasions  that  her  mother 
forgot  to  dismiss  her,  no  doubt  Manon  picked  up  much  val- 
uable information.  .  .  .  Certainly,  whether  from  innocence  or 
art,  she  managed  Dolph  Carew  exquisitely,  never  seeming  aware 
of  an  infatuation  so  blatant  that  it  shrieked  itself  aloud  at  every 
moment;  yielding  not  a  dewdrop  of  her  freshness  to  his  im- 
portunity; and  at  the  same  time  contriving  to  keep  him  at- 
tached and  useful.  "  My  dee-urr,"  La  llorraine  declaimed  to 
Stella  Marcus,  "such  a  clown  for  my  Manon?  —  not  for  any- 
thing in  that  world.  I  have  .  .  .  plans  for  her!  "...  a 
queer  impression  stealing  on  the  heels  of  her  remark,  that 
Manon  was  designed  to  be  mistress  of  a  third-rate  illegitimate 
royalty  of  a  fourth-rate  kingdom.  ...  A  faded  Louis  drawing- 
room  in  vieux-rose  —  an  old  roue  bowing  his  entrance  .  .  . 
waxed  moustache  and  imperial  .  .  .  careful  buttonhole.  .  .  . 
"  I  have  sent  for  my  little  daughter !  "  regally  from  La  llor- 
raine. 

Grumbling  prophecies  were  afloat  in  Montagu  Hall,  that 
some  catastrophe  was  bound  soon  to  happen  among  that  sec- 
ond-floor crowd  —  the  Carews,  the  Marcuses,  Burton  Ames  and 
—  with  vindictive  inflexion  —  those  disreputable  mummers! 
It  was  really  getting  insupportable;  and  fancy  Mrs.  Carew  tak- 
ing no  steps  about  her  husband's  ridiculous  behaviour  with  that 
nasty  little  thing  in  ringlets,  but  to  be  instead  for  ever  run- 


62  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

ning  after  Major  Ames,  who  isn't  my  idea  of  an  officer  —  not 
at  all  well-set-up  —  and  the  noise  —  and  in  and  out  of  the  bed- 
rooms—  how  Mr.  Marcus  can  allow  his  daughter  .  .  .  but  it 
isn't  as  if  they  were  English,  no,  nor  Dutch  either,  although  they 
never  said  they  were.  Did  you  know  that  they  dressed  up  on 
Christmas  Eve,  all  the  lot  of  them,  and  had  a  procession  up 
and  down  the  stairs,  and  the  —  girl  —  wore  —  tights? 

Thus  Deb  mimicked  with  diabolical  accuracy,  the  existing 
Drawing-room  Opinion. 

"And  very  attractive  you  looked  in  'em,  darling!  " 

"  Jenny,  I  believe  when  our  gang  was  singled  out  for  influ- 
enza last  month,  they  looked  on  it  as  an  awful  visitation  of 
justice;  a  sort  of  plague  of  Egypt." 

"  Perhaps  it  was.  Every  one  in  the  house  escaped  it  except 
our  landing.  Do  you  remember  the  day  I  had  bolted  five 
aspirin,  and  the  soldier  sauntered  in,  and  looked  at  me,  and 
thought  I  was  dying,  and  gasped  out:  'Oh,  I  w-won't  detain 
you'?  Ass! — but  I  think  it  saved  my  life,  I  laughed  so. 
And  the  night  I  was  so  awfully  bad  that  Dolph  specially  got 
up  out  of  bed  to  make  a  cup  of  Bovril  for  Manong?  " 

"  Don't,  Jenny !     I  ...  I  hated  him,  that  time." 

"Ah,  well,  I've  had  some  jolly  enough  razzles  with  old 
Dolph;  he  can't  help  it  when  he  gets  taken  this  way."  Into 
Jenny's  tones  had  crept  that  note  of  possessive  defence  that  one 
hears  from  the  woman  in  the  police-court,  shrewishly  denying 
the  black  eye  given  her  by  her  "  man."  "  Poor  old  boy !  he's 
gloomier  than  ever;  but  then  I  married  him  because  he  re- 
minded me  so  of  Martin  Harvey.  Dolph  says  that  Manong 
makes  him  feel  pure  again,  which  is  out  of  my  line  as  I  for- 
feited my  purity  in  his  sight  by  having  married  him.  It  sounds 
a  bit  mixed  up,  and  I  don't  quite  see  where  I  come  in  —  with 
the  washing  on  Saturday  morning,  I  s'pose.  Only  I'm  hanged 
if  I  don't  have  my  little  fling  too." 

"  Does  Dolph  mind  the  soldier?  " 

"Lately  he  does;  haven't  you  noticed?  yellow  with  jeal- 
ousy; tries  to  keep  both  eyes  on  his  wife,  and  not  lift  them  off 
Manong;  wants  to  confide  his  woes  in  me,  and  take  the  high 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  63 

moral  stride  as  well.  Can't  be  done,  my  lad !  But  it  was  quite 
a  rag  during  the  'flue,  Deb;  we  were  all  able  to  take  patterns 
of  each  other's  dressing-gowns,  weren't  we?  La  llorraine  in 
ermine  and  her  head  tied  up  in  a  duster  was  a  treat.  She  and 
your  aunt  can  tell  some  smoke-room  stories  when  they  get 
started  —  my  word!  Dolph  was  shocked  —  afraid  Manong 
would  hear." 

"  The  soldier  was  bad  that  one  week." 

"  Wasn't  he?  And  wouldn't  let  me  do  much  for  him  either, 
worse  luck.  I  almost  wondered  if  I  should  have  wired  for  his 
wife,  off  my  own  bat.     But  he'd  have  been  so  furious." 

"•Why?  doesn't  he  like  her?  " 

"  Child  —  don't  you  know?  he's  crazy  about  her.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh.  .  .  ." 

*'  Didn't  you  know?  Why  else  do  you  suppose  he's  so  pre- 
cious backward  with  us?  Hang  it.  Deb,  we're  not  exactly  un- 
attractive. The  chances  he's  had.  .  .  .  Another  man  would 
have  worn  my  throat  away  with  his  lips  at  it,  before  now!  " 
Jenny  clenched  her  hands  passionately.  "  Deb,  haven't  you  no- 
ticed that  he's  never  kissed  either  of  us?  " 

"Yes.     I  had  noticed." 

"  He  told  me  the  whole  story,  mooching  about  the  streets  in 
a  fog  one  night.  He  had  fooled  about  with  some  chit,  not 
caring  for  her  a  tuppenny  curse  —  as  he  might  have  fooled 
with  us.  Some  one  told  his  wife;  and  she  just  gave  him  notice 
to  quit  — '  I'll  send  for  you  when  I  can  bear  the  sight  of  you 
again!  '  .  .  .  that  was  four  years  ago.  God!  she  must  be 
made  of  ice.  With  a  war  on,  too.  Can't  she  guess  that  the 
man  wants  looking  after;  and  that  if  her  fingers  don't  sew 
his  buttons  on,  some  one  else  will  volunteer  for  the  job.  Not 
that  I've  had  much  from  him,  except  thanks,  for  trying  to  buck 
him  up  and  brush  him  up  ...  a  more  dejected-looking  object 
I've  never  seen  than  when  he  first  slouched  in  here.  Thanks? 
oh  yes,  he  thanked  me  then,  in  the  fog,  for  having  listened  to 
his  drivellings;  as  if  I  could  have  helped  myself,  with  his  hand 
grabbing  my  elbow;  I  was  bored  stiff.  That  was  before  you 
came  in  with  us,  kid." 


64  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  I'll  drop  out  again.  .  .  .  You're  married,  Jenny,  and  so  is 
he,  and  you  can  fit  each  other  with  what's  left  over.  But  I 
want  something  whole " 

"Yes;  you've  got  everything  to  give.  But  you  and  I  might 
just  as  well  go  on  being  pals,  darling, —  he  doesn't  care  a  rap 
for  either  of  us.  And  he'd  be  terrified  of  me  without  you, 
Deb;  or  of  you  without  me.  I've  never  struck  such  a  Cautious 
Willy.  When  he's  left  alone  with  one  of  us  he  goes  to  fetch 
his  pipe  —  till  the  other  comes  back.  I  tell  you,  it  works  up 
all  the  devil  in  me.  .  .  ." 

"And  in  me.  .  .  ." 

"  Deb,  he's  a  real  man,  or  I  shouldn't  care  like  this.  He's 
been  perfectly  sweet  to  me  once  or  twice.  Perfectly  .  .  . 
dear.  He  can  be,  when  he  likes.  Have  you  ever  felt  the 
nuscles  of  his  arm?  Ever  bent  it  back?  like  iron.  Deb  —  I'm 
sure  he's  sworn  some  gimcrack  oath  to  himself,  not  to  ever  let 
it  reach  a  kiss  —  with  us,  I  mean." 

"  Because  of  her." 

"  Why  shouldn't  we  set  ourselves  to  break  it  down  ?  After 
all,  she  must  be  a  beast.  And  she  should  have  kept  him  while 
she  had  him.  It's  our  innings.  Deb,  I  bet  you  a  gallon  of  oil 
for  Cora  that  one  or  the  other  of  us  gets  a  kiss  from  him  to- 
night. I'm  mad  tonight  —  mad  —  game  for  anything!  .  .  . 
There!  I  forgot  that  blooming  party  next  door.  Mad'm's  got 
a  pal  in  to  play  her  accompaniments;  she  won't  let  us  off; 
not  just  for  a  Chorus  meeting." 

A  conspirator's  rap  at  the  door;  the  soldier  thrust  his  head 
stealthily  round  the  corner;  ascertained  with  relief  that  both 
members  of  the  Chorus  were  present;  and  entered,  pulling 
from  his  pocket  a  smoked  haddock  by  its  tail. 

"I've  brought  a  present  for  Cora;  two  presents,"  from  the 
other  pocket  he  extracted  a  tin  of  asparagus.  "  Shall  we 
revel  up  here  tonight,  as  a  thanksgiving?  I  don't  know  for 
what;  but  I'm  in  the  mood."  His  brick-coloured  face  was  im- 
passive; his  voice  slow  and  toneless;  his  entire  personality 
redolent  of  beef  decently  roasted  and  eaten  at  the  proper  time 
at  a  proper  table.     Any  one  more  obviously  opposed  to  riotous 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  65 

revels,  or  to  moods  of  any  kind,  it  would  be  hard  to  imagine. 

"  H'm  ...  I  believe  we  shall  have  to  divide  the  haddock  be- 
fore we  cook  it,"  Jenny  speculated  with  a  dubious  eye  on  Cora's 
limitations,  while  Deb  ruefully  explained  their  evening's  en- 
gagement. 

"  Damn,"  said  the  soldier  gently.  "  Am  I  invited?  I  won't 
go.  I  have  to  sit  at  attention  when  I  hear  music,  or  else  I 
don't  look  as  if  I  were  listening.  And  that's  so  tiring.  Look 
here,  I  can't  endure  an  evening  without  you  two;  honestly  I 
can't.  Why  not  pretend  to  be  ill,  one  of  you?  "  Hastily  he 
amended :    "  Both  of  you." 

"  /  can ;  I've  been  feeling  frightfully  rotten  on  and  off  lately, 
since  the  'flue.  My  heart's  gone  funny  from  too  many  opera- 
tions, or  too  many  aspirin,  or  something.  We  could  go  in 
next  door  for  about  ten  minutes,  and  then  I'll  pretend  I'm  taken 
suddenly  bad,  and  slip  out  in  a  I-hope-nobody-will-notice-or- 
make-a-fuss  manner!  and  Deb  will  naturally  follow  me  out, 
looking  —  what's  the  word,  you  high-brows?  sol — ?  sol — ? 
something  to  do  with  lawyers." 

"Looking  solicitous.  Right  then;  I'll  skulk  about  on  the 
landing  till  I  hear  you.  Say  I'm  out  for  the  evening.  That's 
settled.  We  can  always  throw  Jenny  on  the  bed,  and  me  under 
it,  if  anybody  knocks  to  enquire.  You'd  better  put  the  haddock 
in  your  wash-basin  for  the  present.  Deb." 

"And  please,  where  am  I  to  wash?  " 

Ames  thought  it  over.  He  bestowed  on  every  question, 
great  or  small,  exactly  the  same  amount  of  stolid  phlegm.  "  In 
Jenny's  room." 

"  Not  available.     Dolph  and  Manong  are  spooning  in  there." 

"Alone?" 

"  Oh,  you  bet  Mad'm  or  Miss  Marcus  or  Bobby  is  with  them. 
Our  precious  flapper  mayn't  go  a  second  unchaperoned.  It's 
hard  luck  on  Dolph." 

"  Dear  Jenny,  your  point  of  view  as  Dolph's  wife  is  rather 
a  novel  one." 

"  Excuse  me,  but  is  Jenny  here?  "  A  very  aggrieved  Carew 
stood  on  the  threshold,  glaring  at  his  wife  through  an  enmuf- 


66  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

fling  tangle  of  beard  and  eyebrow.  He  was  incredibly  like  the 
popular  notion  of  a  bushranger.  Actually  he  had  been  travel- 
ler for  a  wholesale  tobacco  firm  in  the  City.  And  was  now  out 
of  work. 

"  Jenny,  you  might  think  of  a  fellow  sometimes,  I  must  say. 
Bobby  keeps  on  running  out  of  the  room,  and  I've  always  got 
to  haul  him  back.  And  you  know  quite  well  what  Mad'm  is 
like  about  Manong.  Why  don't  you  sit  with  us  and  do  some 
sewing  till  Bobby's  bed -time?     You're  so  selfish." 

Another  ferocious  glare  —  and  Dolph  was  gone. 

"  Charming  fellow,  isn't  he?  "  remarked  Jenny  lightly. 
She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  followed  him  out. 

The  soldier  looked  at  Deb  expressively:  "Bit  thick,  isn't 
it?" 

"I  hate  Dolph  Carew!" 

"  He  doesn't  count.  But  she  —  she's  the  pluckiest  little  soul 
in  England.     One  can't  interfere,  that's  the  worst  of  it." 

"Why  can't  one?  Because  one  might  compromise  one- 
self? " 

He  smiled  a  little  at  her  passionate  scorn,  accepting  the 
implication  calmly.     "Yes.     Partly  that." 

"Mostly  that." 

"You  admire  rash  impulse,  and  headlong  defiance,  and  all 
those  virtues  that  make  a  muddle  in  the  world,  don't  you?  " — 
From  teasing  Deb,  he  awoke  to  awful  realization  that  he  was 
alone  with  her.     "I  say  —  I  must  be  off!  " 

"  Yes,  hurry !  —  a  whole  half-minute."  Daringly  she  chal- 
lenged his  unspoken  thought. 

"  Ridiculous  child.  Remember  to  put  the  haddock  in  the 
basin."  He  just  touched  her  shoulder  ...  all  his  warmer 
marks  of  aflfection  were  reserved  for  the  times  when  the  Chorus 
was  present  in  full  membership  .  .  .  and  went  out. 

IV 

Deb  crossed  straight  to  the  long  mirror,  and  made  the  dis- 
covery that  she  had  not  been  looking  beautiful  enough  to  say 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  67 

what  she  had  said.  She  began  to  dress  for  the  evening  with  a 
sort  of  revengeful  deliberation.  The  deliberation  was  neces- 
sary to  ensure  good  result.  No  wise  woman  can  fly,  with  spirit 
aflame,  into  her  clothes,  and  then  hope  to  prove  seductive. 
The  dash  was  in  her  spirit,  nevertheless.  She  was  angry  with 
the  big  thing  for  not  proving  the  mellow,  englamoured  sanctu- 
ary she  had  every  right  to  expect.  This  evolution  of  a  dream 
into  fact  was  futile;  worse  than  that  —  destructive  —  to  herself. 
A  stupid,  lop-sided  business!  Deb  was  not  glad  of  love  now  it 
had  come.  Only  a  troublesome  but  intelligent  honesty  kept  her 
from  repudiating  it  altogether  as  the  big  thing;  returning  to 
her  former  state  of  silver-misty  anticipation.  ..."  One  can 
pretend,  I  suppose?  " — pretend  that  the  soldier  was  a  mere 
wayside  incident.  Only  she  knew  too  much  about  wayside 
incidents,  to  commit  that  error. 

—  Well  then,  since  she  was  so  sure,  were  not  the  issues  worth 
a  forced  initiative  on  her  part?  Could  she  compete  with 
Jenny's  boldness  —  if  she  chose?  For  with  Deb,  as  with 
Jenny,  the  soldier's  steady,  profiting  self-control  had  become  a 
nightmare  which  had  to  be  exchanged  at  all  costs,  even  for  his 
scorn,  even  for  self-destruction,  even  for  evil.  .  .  . 

Her  temper  resolved  itself  into  action.  There  was  mischief 
in  her  selection  of  the  pure  ivory  taff^eta  dress,  the  golden  shoes, 
and  cobwebby  gold  stockings  that  the  supple  fancy  could  con- 
tinue on  limbs  straight  and  slender  inside  the  blown  white  cup 
of  her  skirts.  Deb  could  wear  white  and  pearl  and  dove-tints 
without  fear  of  looking  miss-ish;  by  contrast  with  her  deep 
colours,  they  enhanced  her  vivid  grace  more  than  the  traditional 
purple  or  flame.  Sufficient  of  purple  in  her  sombre  twilight 
eyes;  flame  enough  in  her  lips.  Her  hair  she  turned  inwards, 
concealing  its  masses  so  skilfully,  that,  sleek  on  top  and  bulg- 
ing rhythmically  into  a  smooth  pear-shape  round  the  cheeks 
and  the  nape  of  the  neck,  it  gave  her  somewhat  the  appear- 
ance of  the  knave  of  clubs  as  pictured  in  a  pack  of  cards. 

Then  she  went  back  to  the  mirror,  and  scrutinized  her  looks 
long  and  earnestly,  and  thought  —  like  all  heroines  in  every 


68  DEBATABLE  GROUND 

crisis  of  each  love-afifair  —  how  queer  it  was  that  just  these 
curves  and  colours  should  have  been  the  haphazard  outward 
accessories  to  —  her  soul  ?  .  .  .  no,  souls  were  mawkish 
things !  —  to  her  essential  Deb-ness. 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  girl  who  was  playing  the  accompaniments  to  La  llor- 
raine's  singing  glanced  aside  once  or  twice  from  Deb  to 
Jenny,  contrasting  mystery  and  mobility.  Jenny  at- 
tracted her  the  most ;  she  made  up  her  mind  to  speak  to  Jenny 
directly  the  song  was  over.  .  .  .  And  then  she  saw  Jenny  bite 
her  lip,  clutch  tightly  at  the  arm  of  the  chair  .  .  .  after  a  min- 
ute or  two  of  apparent  bodily  agony,  rise  and  grope  an  unsteady 
way  through  the  edges  and  corners  of  furniture,  to  the  door. 
Antonia  Verity  went  on  with  the  Aria  from  "  Samson  et  Delila." 
She  had  seen  a  swift  look  interchanged  between  Deb  and  Jenny, 
just  before  the  spasm  of  pain  which  drove  the  latter  from  the 
room.  Also,  in  the  instant's  silence  before  the  prima-donna 
had  begun  to  let  herself  go  in  "  Mon  coeur  s'ouvre  a  ta  voix," 
Antonia  fancied  she  had  detected  a  scraping  sound  and  heavy 
breathing  outside  the  door. 

Stella  had  also  remarked  Jenny's  symptoms,  and  half  rose  to 
follow  her  out  without  interrupting  the  singing;  but  Deb  mur- 
mured: "All  right.  Auntie,  I'll  go  "  .  .  .  and  slipped  noise- 
lessly in  Jenny's  wake.  Dolph  was  wrapt  up  in  Manon,  who 
was  wrapt  up  in  her  own  indifference  to  Dolph.  And  La  llor- 
raine  was  back  in  the  Paris  opera-house,  eyes  uplifted  to  the 
imaginary  tiers  of  packed  faces,  voice  soaring  resonantly  to  a 
non-existent  acoustic.  .  .  .  Antonia  wondered  if  the  drum  of 
her  left  ear  were  being  shattered;  she  also  wondered  a  little 
what  was  afoot  outside  the  door. 

II 

"Did  you  hear  me  sleuthing?  "  queried  Ames,  contentedly 
lopping  the  haddock  to  lit  Cora's  limitations. 

"  Is  that  what  you  were  doing?     Of  course  we  heard."    The 

69 


70  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

three  had  been  recently  present  at  a  cinema  film  which  por- 
trayed a  quantity  of  flickering  doors,  set  in  a  flickering  corridor, 
down  which  a  flickering  procession  of  waiters,  detectives  and 
gentlemen  burglars  —  all  impartially  in  evening  dress  —  por- 
trayed the  diverting  art  of  sleuthing:  they  skulked  along  close 
to  the  wall,  one  arm  shielding  their  eye  to  avoid  observation, 
and  at  every  bedroom  door  they  bent  and  applied  an  ear  to  the 
keyhole  —  then  started  erect,  confirmed  in  their  worst  sus- 
picion, and  went  to  the  next  keyhole.  .  .  . 

"  I  sleuthed  all  over  the  house,  till  I  sleuthed  outside  Miss 
Lamb's  door "  he  stopped  abruptly. 

"And  then?" 

"Then  I  stopped  sleuthing.  It's  an  ignoble  pastime.  Get 
me  my  screw-driver;  something's  wrong  with  Cora."  A  min- 
ute later  he  was  completely  happy,  surrounded  by  Cora  in 
eleven  fragments;  while  Jenny,  very  excitable  and  talkative, 
enacted  to  him  exactly  how  she  had  been  "  taken  ill "  during 
La  llorraine's  song. 

"—There.     Now  she'll  do." 

"  There  was  nothing  wrong  with  Cora;  you  wanted  an  excuse 
to  pull  her  to  bits,"  Deb  accused  him. 

"  A  man  is  only  a  child ;  he  must  play." 

"  Fiddling  at  things?  " 

"  Tinkering  with  things.  Pottering  over  things.  That's  a 
mercy!  "  as  Delila,  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  died  to  silence. 
"Our  invalid  had  better  be  hoisted  on  to  the  bed;  they'll  be 
coming  in  to  enquire." 

Just  in  time  Jenny  hurled  herself  among  the  pillows,  and 
drew  the  quilt  up  to  her  flushed  cheeks.  A  knock  at  the  door. 
The  soldier  eliminated  himself  against  the  wall.  Deb  went 
softly  to  the  threshold:  "  Is  that  you,  Manon?  .  .  .  Yes,  she's 
in  here.  .  .  .  No,  I  wouldn't  come  in;  she  .  .  ."  Deb  backed 
the  unseen  visitor  onto  the  landing.  The  other  two,  listening 
breathlessly,  heard  her  low,  capable,  reassuring  explanations: 
".  .  .  be  all  right  presently  .  .  .  room  too  hot  .  .  .  strain  of 
the  last  few  weeks  .  .  .  might  do  her  good  .  .  .  tell  them  not 
to  worry.  .  .  ." 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  71 

Jenny  inserted  a  moan  of  corroboration. 

"  I'm  so  vairry  sorry "  from  Manon. 

Deb  returned  to  the  room,  closing  the  door.  And  Jenny 
cried : 

"  Little  humbug!  much  she  cares!  " 

"  Well,  nurse,  shall  we  operate?  "  demanded  Ames  cheerily. 
He  stood  at  the  bedside,  assuming  a  professional  manner,  one 
finger  on  the  patient's  pulse.  "  Um.  Um.  This  is  excellent. 
We  shall  soon  be  all  right.  Up  today  and  down  tomorrow  and 
dead  the  next  day.  A  great  improvement  here,  nurse.  I 
should  give  her  .  .  ."  he  drew  the  pseudo-nurse  aside  to  a  lit- 
tle distance,  dropping  his  voice  to  a  grave  imdertone.  Jenny 
burst  out  laughing  at  the  foolery  —  then  shuddered  —  and 
laughed  again: 

"  Bravo !  It's  the  real  thing.  God  —  how  often  I've  seen 
'em  do  just  that  at  the  hospitals  and  nursing-homes.  I've  been 
turned  inside  out  and  put  on  the  table  so  often,  I  wonder  there's 
any  of  me  left  kicking.  Like  poor  old  Cora  over  there  —  the 
doctors  had  all  the  fun,  tinkering  and  fiddling." 

"  It  sounds  fun,  when  you  put  it  like  that,"  Ames  said  ap- 
preciatively. And  drew  a  clumsy  penknife  from  his  pocket. 
"  Where  will  you  have  it?  "  he  demanded  considerately,  throw- 
ing off  his  coat  and  rolling  up  his  shirt-sleeves. 

"  Deb !     Deb !  "  shrieked  Jenny,  in  hysterical  appeal. 

Deb  flung  herself  to  the  rescue.  She  and  the  soldier  sleuthed 
each  other  malevolently  round  the  room,  he  with  the  penknife 
and  she  with  the  screw-driver,  till  they  ended  up  with  a  neat 
little  burlesque  of  a  murder  in  the  middle  of  the  carpet;  La 
llorraine,  next  door,  supplying  unconscious  atmosphere  by  the 
torture  scene  from  "  Tosca." 

"Die!  "said  Deb  lightly. 

"  With  my  fingers  buried  in  your  raven  tresses!  " 

"Miscreant!  " 

"  Don't  call  me  names.     I'm  not." 

"  You  are." 

"  I'm  not!  "  he  tried  to  hoist  himself  up  by  the  coarse  black 
ropes  of  her  loosened  hair.     Deb  resisted  fiercely.     Jenny,  toss- 


72  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

ing  from  one  side  to  another,  called  out  petulantly  that  she  was 
forgotten  —  it  was  her  party!  — and  w£is  half  off  the  bed,  be- 
fore another  knock  sent  her  flying  back  to  the  shelter  of  the 
coverlid.  The  soldier  lurched  into  his  special  arm-chair  and 
took  up  the  screw-driver  — "  for  a  disguise,"  he  murmured. 
And  Deb,  wildly  dishevelled,  clutched  after  her  expression  of 
calm  but  anxious  best  friend  to  the  invalid. 

Antonia  Verity  entered,  with  a  glass  of  tea  and  a  slice  of 
lemon. 

"  They  thought  this  might  do  you  good,"  to  Jenny,  who  ex- 
tended a  feeble  hand,  took  the  glass,  raised  it  shakily  to  her 
lips,  spilt  a  few  drops,  smiled  bravely  —  then,  with  a  sudden 
gesture  of  repugnance,  handed  it  to  Deb.  "  Presently,  dear 
.  .  .  not  now." 

Deb  was  surprised  that  she  did  it  so  well.  Usually  Jenny 
was  prone  to  over-act. 

After  a  single  look  bestowed  upon  the  perplexing  and  unex- 
plained presence  of  a  gentleman  in  shirt-sleeves  cooking  as- 
paragus over  an  oil-stove,  Antonia's  eyes  returned  to  Jenny : 

"  I  thought  you  were  shamming  just  now,  in  the  next  room. 
But  I  was  wrong.     I'm  sorry." 

She  lingered  a  moment,  seemingly  in  expectation.  But  the 
atmosphere  was  feverish  and  hostile.  "  I'm  sorry,"  she  re- 
peated; and  went. 

"  Jenny,  you're  a  genius !  that  bit  of  bye-play  with  the  glass 
was  magnificent." 

"  I  am,  I  am,  aren't  I  ?  — '  I  thought  you  were  shamming, 
but  I  was  wrong,' "  she  mimicked  triumphantly.  "  —  Oh 
Hell!  "  and  burrowed  her  face  sharply  into  the  pillow. 

"  What  is  it?  "  alarmed.  Deb  sprang  forward. 

"You  taken  in  too?  "  Jenny,  without  lifting  her  head,  broke 
into  shrill  peals  of  laughter  which  she  seemed  unable  to  repress. 
"  Oh  —  oh  —  oh  —  I've  taken  you  in  too !  .  .  .  Dearest  — " 
this  in  response  to  the  soldier's  fingers  roaming  at  the  nape  of 
her  neck  — "  Don't  pull  your  hand  away  —  don't  —  it's  heav- 
enly —  it  soothes  me.  .  .  .  What  does  it  matter?  we're  all  play- 
ing the  fool;  Dolph  is  playing  the  idiot  in  the  other  room; 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  73 

we're  all  mixed  up,  anyway.  Deb,  give  me  that  tea  —  I'm 
crazy  with  thirst,"  she  snatched  the  glass;  gulped  down  the 
contents.     "What  about  those  asparagus?  " 

"  They  ought  to  be  done  enough  now ;  you  shall  have  some 
if  you're  good.  What  do  you  think,  nurse?  one  or  two?  and 
the  rest  for  us." 

Deb  nodded  professionally.  But  it  struck  her  that  Jenny 
was  rather  making  capital  out  of  the  privileges  of  her  present 
role.  Why  had  she  not  thought  to  be  herself  the  one  who  was 
ill?  But  Jenny  was  really  ill  so  often  —  it  was  less  likely  to 
cause  suspicion. 

The  soldier  removed  the  tin  of  asparagus  from  Cora;  and 
seating  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  began  to  curl  them 
slowly,  tantalizingly,  into  Jenny's  mouth.  "  I've  never  seen 
you  look  quite  so  healthy;  in  case  any  more  of  the  neighbours 
drop  in  to  enquire,  we  may  as  well  cast  a  dissembling  shadow 
on  that  blooming  cheek,  those  brilliant  brown  eyes.  Deb,  put 
out  the  light." 

Deb  obeyed.  The  asparagus  were  finished,  one  by  one.  A 
crash  of  discordances,  as  though  some  one  had  suddenly  sat  on 
the  keys  of  the  piano,  sounded  from  the  adjoining  room;  and 
La  llorraine's  wild,  deep  laughter.  Jenny  lay  as  though  ex- 
hausted, nuzzling  against  Burton  Ames'  shoulder. 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  whispered. 

"  So  miserable  .  .  .  and  I'm  tired  of  going  on." 

"  I  am,  too.  Never  mind  —  it's  not  so  bad  being  miserable 
together," 

"  You're  rather  nice  " —  then  lower  still  — "  kiss  me.  .  .  ." 

He  laid  his  cheek  down  against  hers  —  no  more.  But  she 
seemed  content  .  .  .  and  Deb  turned  away;  stood,  forlornly 
enough,  with  her  back  to  the  bed,  looking  down  at  Cora.  .  .  . 
"  I'm  miserable  too,"  she  whispered.     But  Jenny  heard : 

"  Deb !  —  Deb,  come  over  here  —  come  over  to  me  at  once. 
How  dare  you  not  come  .  .  .  feeling  like  that?     Deb!  " 

Deb  crouched  beside  the  bed,  with  Jenny's  arms  tightly 
wound  about  her  shoulders.  The  soldier's  knee,  hard  as  gran- 
ite, pressed  against  her  side.     They  were  all  three  very  near 


74  DEBATABLE  GROUND 

together  ...  a  magnetic  sense  of  rest  was  born  in  this  close 
contact  —  Jenny's  hot  skin,  Deb's  tumble  of  hair,  harsh  feel  of 
the  soldier's  frayed  tweed  coat.  .  .  .  There  was  no  other  illum- 
ination in  the  room,  and  Cora  cast  her  spells  in  hard  blocks  of 
white  light  and  black  shadow. 

"  Good  old  Chorus,"  breathed  Jenny. 

"You're  a  really-and-truly  person,  Jenny,  aren't  you?  " 

"Sweetheart,  what  do  you  mean?  " 

"I  used  to  ask  about  people  in  stories:  are  they  really- 
and-truly  real?  Somehow  I  always  know  that  you  are;  at 
least  you,  if  nobody  else." 

"Of  course  she  is,"  grunted  Ames;  "considering  she's  a 
Christian,  quite  remarkably  real." 

"  Hush !  "  quickly  Jenny  laid  her  fingers  over  his  mouth ; 
"  you  must  leave  me  that  at  least  —  my  religion." 

"  Child,  child,  religion  is  a  man-made  door,  blocking  all 
hope  of  vistas  beyond." 

"  Faith  is  a  crystal  window,"  whispered  Jenny,  her  brown 
eyes  steadfast. 

"  Maybe.     Nothing  so  opaque  as  crystal." 

Deb  said  reproachfully:  "What  can  you  give  her  to  hang 
on  to,  for  what  you  take  away?  " 

"  Herself.  The  courage  and  pride  in  her.  It's  much  more 
comforting  really  than  a  vague  hope  that  God  will  come  to 
the  rescue  in  extremes.  You  can  be  definitely  certain  of  the 
measure  of  your  own  powers;  but  God  is  at  best  a  gamble." 

Jenny's  eyes  strayed  fearfully  ceilingward.  .  .  . 

"  Looking  for  the  thunderbolt  that  will  destroy  the  blas- 
phemer? " 

"  I  remember  looking  up  in  just  that  way,  the  first  time  I 
said  damn,"  Deb  murmured  reminiscently. 

"  It's  what  we  learn  at  our  mother's  knee.  We've  all  got 
mother's  knees  in  our  system  —  Jenny  here  worst  of  all  —  and 
till  we  learn  to  see  through  it " 

"  Your  metaphor  is  in  peril,  as  well  as  your  soul." 

"  S.  0.  S.,"  he  laughed. 

But  at  this  tendency  of  the  conversation  to  become  high- 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  75 

brow,  Jenny's  mood,  as  usual,  flickered  to  restlessness.  "  I 
ought  to  go  and  see  if  Bobby's  all  right;  I  haven't  been  in  all 
the  evening." 

"  You  forget  that  you're  in  a  highly  critical  condition,  and 
mustn't  be  seen  dancing  about  the  corridors.     I'll  go." 

And  Deb  wondered,  as  she  closed  the  door  behind  her,  if, 
in  her  absence,  Jenny  would  contrive  to  win  the  gallon  of  oil 
for  Cora.  .  .  . 

Bobby  was  soundly  asleep  in  his  cot;  his  round,  monkey 
face,  so  comically  a  replica  of  Jenny's,  snuggled  half  under 
the  bed-clothes  to  meet  his  huddled-up  knees.  Deb  was  com- 
pelled to  bend  and  lightly  kiss  him,  for  the  sake  of  her  private 
fondness  for  all  small  boys.  A  night-light  floating  on  the 
table  beside  him  was  suddenly  quenched.  Deb  turned  to 
grope  her  way  out  of  the  room.  She  heard  a  groan  behind 
her  —  and,  for  Bobby's  sake,  bit  back  a  sharp  scream  of 
terror  — 

"  It's  only  me,"  came  Dolph's  despondent  reassurance. 

"You?     But  I  thought  you  were  with  —  with  the  others." 

*'  They  don't  want  me." 

She  hung  about  uncomfortably,  her  hand  on  the  door-knob. 

"  Jenny's  better,"  she  volunteered  at  last. 

"Is  she?"  quite  indifferent.  Then  he  burst  out:  "Deb, 
d'you  know  that  I'll  be  rich  one  day,  when  my  uncle  dies. 
Rich.  People  will  treat  me  differently  then.  I  tell  you.  Deb, 
money  does  everything  with  some  people.  Not  with  a  young 
girl,  of  course  —  but  with  their  mothers.  I'm  nobody  now. 
Any  one  can  insult  me,  give  me  the  sack.  I  wish  I  was  dead 
and  buried.  .  .  .  Bobby  oughtn't  to  be  left  the  whole  evening 
alone;  tell  Jenny  I  said  so.  That's  why  I'm  in  here;  that's 
why;  the  only  reason,"  he  mumbled.  "Else  why  shouldn't 
I  be  with  the  others?  " 

Apparently  some  shattering  of  the  next-door  alliance  had 
occurred  on  this  evening  of  happenings. 

"Send  Jenny  in  to  me.  I  won't  sit  alone.  Why  should  I? 
She's  always  shut  away  with  you  and  Ames,  when  I  want  her. 
— Deb,  I'm  so  wretched." 


76  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"Yes  .  .  .  but  I  don't  like  you  one  bit,"  reflected  Deb. 
Aloud  she  said:  "  I  expect  it'll  be  all  right  tomorrow,  Dolph; 
La  llorraine  has  sudden  moods,  like  all  artists." 

It  was  queer,  this  all-round  tacit  acceptance  of  unofficial 
affections,  on  the  second  floor  landing  at  Montagu  Hall. 

Carew  merely  groaned  again;  which  Deb  interpreted  as 
welcome  dismissal. 

Ill 

.  .  .  Had  Jenny  won  that  kiss  in  her  absence?  — Deb  slid 
open  the  door,  in  a  bewilderment  of  dread  and  curiosity.  Had 
Jenny 

Impossible  to  say.  For  La  lloraine  was  sitting  on  the  bed, 
eclipsing  by  gesticulation  and  oratory,  a  helplessly  recumbent 
invalid.  The  soldier  was  calmly  smoking  and  reading  in  the 
armchair  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  his  back  to  the  bed, 
Cora  among  his  feet.  His  presence  in  the  room  seemed  almost 
part  of  the  general  acceptance.  How  funny.  Deb  thought,  if 
they  all  suddenly  started  questioning  and  sorting  and  clearing 
up.  .  .  . 

It  appeared  that  Nadya  lloraine,  at  least,  was  doing  some- 
thing of  the  sort. 

"  My  dee-urr,  now  listen  to  me.  I  tell  you  how  to  win  back 
that  husband  of  yours.  I  have  said  to  me:  it  is  enough  now, 
it  shall  end!  Jenny,  see  how  you  lie  here,  wizout  a  manicure, 
your  hair  in  a  puzzle,  a  blouse  that  has  no  seduction.  .  .  . 
And  he,  that  fool,  that  booby, —  shall  I  tell  you  vat  vill  hap- 
pen? he  falls  into  the  hands  of  adventuresses!  My  dee-urr, 
they  snap  him  up  from  you  .  .  ."  Sincerity  of  pity  for  the 
abandoned  wife  dominated  any  personal  asssociation  with  the 
said  adventuresses.  "  They  snap  him  up  —  and  spit  him  out!  " 
La  lloraine  dignified  the  process  by  accompanying  pantomime, 
grotesquely  mimicked  by  the  enormous  shadow  cast  on  the 
wall  behind  her.  "  I  will  tell  you  that  secret,  Jenny,  my 
dee-urr,  which  I  'ave  learn :  you  must  be  a  woman  to  him  as  well 
as  wife.  .  .  ."  She  grasped  Jenny's  wrist,  swooped  forward, 
and  lowered  her  tones  to  a  key  of  thrilling  confidence.     She 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  77 

breathed    in    Jenny's   face.     She   took    possession    of   Jenny. 

Deb  and  the  soldier  were  cut  off  to  a  complete  isolation. 

"What  have  you  got?  "  she  bent  over  his  shoulder  to  see 
the  title  of  the  book  he  held.  "Oh,  that's  not  fair!  "  indig- 
nantly. For  the  Chorus  had  been  half-reading  half-acting 
Shaw's  "  Pygmalion  "  for  their  mutual  amusement ;  and  he 
had  anticipated  that  portion  of  the  play  to  which  Deb  had 
been  secretly  straining  forward. 

"  You  wanted  to  make  sure  of  being  Eliza  in  that  bit  where 
she  throws  the  slippers,  of  course.  You're  a  shocking  savage, 
Deb.  And  anyway,  the  part  isn't  for  any  gentlewoman,  and 
naturally  falls  to  me.     You  can  be  Higgins." 

"  I  won't  be  Higgins.  I'll  be  Eliza.  You  —  you  tempt 
slippers." 

"  M'yes  —  I  daresay  I  do.  Slippers  are  mild.  I'll  lend  you 
my  trench  boots." 

"  Thanks." 

"  Why  do  you  hate  me  so,  Deb?  "  lazily  he  threw  back  one 
hand  to  where  she  was  still  leaning  over  his  chair,  and  grasped 
some  of  her  hanging  hair. 

She  was  exultant  at  having  at  last  urged  him  to  a  personal 
reflection.  "  Because  you  don't  take  enough  notice  of  me," 
she  replied,  in  a  freakish  impulse  of  candour. 

"  Dear  Eliza,  isn't  my  step  bent  straight  for  this  room, 
when  I  enter  the  house?  " 

"  That's  because  of  —  Cora.  Because  we  make  you  com- 
fortable." 

"  I  suppose  it  is.  Funny  hair  you've  got,  Eliza;  like  a 
strong,  stormy  black  sea.  I  thought  women's  hair  was  always 
fluffy  and  soft." 

"As  one  woman's  was?  .  .  ."  flitted  through  Deb's  mind. 
But  she  did  not  say  it. 

He  still  examined  with  minute  interest  the  thick  tress 
which  lay  across  the  palm  of  his  hand.  "  To  a  man  of  in- 
genuity and  resource,  it  would  be  useful  for  all  sorts  of  things 
if  one  were  wrecked  on  an  island;  Eliza,  I  wish  I  could  be 
stranded  on  a  desert  island  with  your  hair." 


78  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"With  .  .  .  only  my  hair?"  She  was  breaking  through 
it  now,  that  nameless  barrier  which  her  nameless  creed  had 
set  up;  useless  barrier,  Jenny  had  shown  her.  .  .  .  Yes,  but 
Jenny  was  different.  Because  she  was  married? — well,  be- 
cause she  was  different.  Because  she  let  her  passions  bubble 
over  when  and  where  and  how  she  chose  .  .  .  unruly,  undisci- 
plined Jenny.  But  Deb  had  promised  herself  to  compete  with 
Jenny  this  time.  ...  A  pulse  ticked  in  each  wrist  —  two 
frantic  little  clocks.  On  the  other  side  of  the  wall  some  one  — 
Antonia  probably  —  was  playing  Debussy  .  .  .  mournful, 
soul-flattening  discordances  ...  La  lloraine's  rush  of  inaudi- 
ble speech  still  expounded  man  and  the  ways  of  man: 

"  And  I  say  to  'im,  that  minute  ago  even,  my  dee-urr :  '  You 
should  kneel  to  your  wife  like  a  thief  to  a  goddess,  for  you  'ave 
r-r-robbed  'er  of  all  'er  gifts!  '  Ha!  'e  did  not  like  that, 
Jenny,  I  tell  you.     He  sulks  now  in  his  room,  the  booby " 

"  Well,  it  was  rude,  considering  he  was  your  guest,"  from 
Jenny,  in  shrill  defence  of  her  male  property. 

..."  What  should  I  do  with  the  rest  of  you,  Eliza?  " 

"Would  another  man  ask  that?  " 

Deb  was  on  a  false  trail,  her  manner  hectic  and  unnatural. 
She  dragged  her  reluctance  to  the  gap  in  the  last  barrier  — 
plunged  through  —  bent  her  mouth  to  his  up-turned,  sleepy 
face 

And  suddenly  she  remembered  little  Lothar  von  Belling 
.  .  .  and  pleaded  to  whatever  Justice  might  be  presiding 
somewhere,  that  she  had  been  generous  then,  had  given  ar- 
dently for  a  boy's  pleasure.  .  .  .  Would  Justice  please  choose 
this  moment  to  reward  her? 

.  .  .  His  fingers  slowly  loosened  grip  of  her  hair ;  it  dropped 
heavily  against  his  shoulders.  And  in  swift  reaction  at  see- 
ing it  there.  Deb  flung  back  her  head,  stood  upright,  pale  and 
ashamed,  .  .  .  over  his  head  their  eyes  met  in  the  mirror 
which  topped  the  fireplace  in  front  of  them.  Reaction  .  .  . 
she  had  had  enough  of  this  cramped,  stuffy  room,  and  all 
their  cramped,  stuffy  passions;   stupefaction  of  every  one's 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  79 

moral  sense;  a  sort  of  frowsiness;  smoke  and  shut  windows, 
and  unaired  emotions.  .  .  .  She  wanted,  at  once  and  instantly, 
a  wind  blown  in  with  the  running  tide;  sanity  and  humour 
and  keenness.  Oh,  anything  but  this  room,  at  this  moment, 
and  the  necessity  of  meeting  the  mirrored  gaze  of  a  man  to 
■whom  she  had  just  given  herself  away. 

.  .  .  The  moment  stretched,  an  interminable  grey  length. 
Then  the  music  next  door  trickled  away  to  silence,  and  it 
seemed  as  though  the  unsupported  moment  would  have  to 
trickle  away  with  it.  .  .  . 

"  I'm  only  human !  " —  thus  to  himself  the  soldier  stifled  a 
protesting  loyalty.  Heavily  he  shifted  round  in  his  chair 
towards  the  girl,  standing  now  so  stiffly  and  primly  erect  be- 
hind him 

"  Deb  "... 

A  rap  at  the  door.  The  evening  had  been  punctuated  by 
such  staccato  interruptions.     This  time  it  was  Aunt  Stella. 

"  Is  Major  Ames  here?  Yes?  You're  wanted  on  the 
'phone;  trunk  call,  the  page  said.  They  came  to  look  for 
you  next  door.  Well,  how's  the  patient?  "  as  Jenny  emerged 
wanly  from  the  clutch  of  La  lloraine's  overpowering  person- 
ality. "  My  dear  child,  surely  you  would  be  better  inside 
your  own  bed  than  outside  some  one  else's.  Off  with  you! 
Make  your  husband  attend  to  the  hot-water  bottle  ...  fill 
it  with  his  burning  tears,  if  he  likes.  Deb,  being  your  prying 
spinster  aunt,  it  is  my  duty  to  inform  you  that  this  room  has 
a  horribly  dissipated  smell  of  fish  and  stove-oil  and  smoke, 
and  one  doesn't  put  one's  hair  down  for  the  evening  till  all  the 
visitors  have  left ;  I  ought  to  fetch  your  grandpapa  —  only 
he'd  have  a  stroke.  Madame,  Miss  Verity  threatens  to  go 
already,  and  wants  to  say  good-bye." 

Ill 

Burton  Ames,  as  he  lumbered  downstairs,  was  angry  with 
himself  for  being  angry  at  the  interruption.  It  was  much  bet- 
ter; if  he  once  budged  from  his  safe  resolve,  the  Chorus  would 
become  quite  impossible.    And  he  would  miss  it  —  would  miss 


80  DEBATABLE  GROUND 

them  —  quite  intensely.  They  had  obviously  set  out  to  try 
him  pretty  severely  this  evening.  Why?  Sheer  mischief? 
Deb  was  the  more  dangerous  of  the  two.  One  could  feel 
tenderly,  an  absurd,  almost  pathetic  tenderness,  for  Jenny 
out-of-bounds  .  .  .  passionate,  ill-used  little  urchin.  But 
Deb  .  .  .  Damn  this  'phone  call! 
"Hello!"  .  .  . 

IV 

Deb  and  Jenny  were  alone. 
"  Deb  —  I  saw." 

"  Saw  what?  "  said  Deb  absently. 

"  When  you  bent  his  head  back  .  .  .  just  now.  And  then 
Mad'm  came  between.     Deb  —  did  he?  " 

Deb  did  not  answer.  Sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  hands 
clasped  round  her  knees,  ears  straining,  straining  for  his  re- 
turning tread,  she  examined  her  behaviour  of  a  moment  ago, 
and  decided  that  self-verdict  must  wait  on  subsequent  events. 
If  only  he  made  it  worth  while.  .  .  . 

The  room  had  grown  unaccountably  darker.  Jenny  shud- 
dered ;  propped  herself  up  on  one  elbow : 

"  Deb,  old  girl,  it's  a  fool's  game  to  pretend  one  is  ill  when 

one  isn't,  because " 

"  There  he  is!  "  burst  from  Deb's  lips,  oblivious  of  Jenny. 
Burton  Ames  swung  into  the  room,  rejuvenated. 
"  Jenny  —  Deb  —  I'm  off  tonight." 

His  voice  was  still  quiet  and  controlled;  but  the  weary 
inflexion  to  which  they  were  accustomed  from  him  had  been 
replaced  by  tense  virility;  his  bent  shoulders  were  squarely 
flung  back;  his  eyes  snapped  and  tingled  with  bright  blue  fire 
under  the  grizzled  jutting  eyebrows. 
"  I'm  oflf  tonight." 

"  She  .  .  .  your  wife  .  .  .  she  wants  you  again,"  Jenny 
gasped. 

"  Yes.  I  spoke  to  her  on  the  'phone.  She  has  taken  a 
house  in  London;  Campden  Hill;  just  moved  in.  I'm  joining 
her  at  once;   she  has  invited  me,"  with  a  quick,  whimsical 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  81 

smile.  "  I  wish  it  hadn't  occurred  to  you  to  be  *  taken  ill ' 
just  tonight,  Jenny  dear;  you  could  have  helped  me  pack. 
Deb's  disqualified,  of  course;  good  little  girls  mayn't  pass 
tlie  ogre's  threshold,  according  to  Mother's-Knee.  Never  mind, 
I'll  send  my  orderly  down  in  the  morning;  can't  wait  now.  I 
say,  look  at  Cora!  " 

Simultaneously  the  three  turned  and  stared  at  the  altar  of 
their  union;  the  line  of  flame  was  slowly  narrowing,  and  the 
walls  and  ceiling  and  furniture,  and  the  faces  of  the  three 
grouped  round  and  on  the  bed,  hitherto  sharply  defined  in 
black  and  white,  were  already  smudged  to  a  mere  dimness. 

"  Cheap  irony  —  oh,  very  inexpensive  indeed !  "  scoff^ed  Deb. 
And  she  was  grateful  to  Cora  .  .  .  deeply  grateful. 

"  On  the  contrary,  a  histrionic  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things. 
When  did  you  last  fill  the  oil-tank.  Deb?  " 

"  Before  dinner  —  no,  though,  I  didn't  —  I  remember  now, 
Jenny  came  in  and  distracted  me.     That  explains  it." 

Nevertheless,  the  gradual  ebbing  of  the  light,  coincident 
with  the  silence  succeeding  the  waves  of  noise  and  music  next 
door,  wrought  eerily  upon  the  nerves  of  the  two  of  the  Chorus 
who  had  not  received  their  call  of  "  all's  right  with  the  world." 
Even  Ames  was  touched  to  a  cheery  sentimentality :  "  I 
shall  miss  you  both  tremendously;  you've  been  so  awfully 
good  to  me." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  you've  been  very  welcome,"  said  Deb  lightly. 
"  You're  in  a  hurry  —  don't  let  these  obsequies  delay  you. 
We  bury  Jenny  the  day  after  tomorrow,  at  two  o'clock,  if 
you  care  to  attend." 

"As  I  was  responsible  for  her  death-bed  scene,  I  suppose 
I  must.  But  it's  been  worth  it,  hasn't  it,  Jermy  beloved,  to 
have  had  this  last  fling  together?  " 

Jenny  played  up.  "  Oh,  it  has !  it  has !  I've  lived  my  life 
down    to    the   very    dregs!     And   now,    as   the   light   slowly 

fades " 

"  And  the  music  dies  away "  supplemented  Deb. 

"  And  the  asparagi  have  been  trickled  one  by  one  down  that 
dark  and  narrow  path  that  engorges  all  asparagi " 


82  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

*'  So  that  young  life,  too,  throbbed  to  silence.  Whistling, 
he  went  on  his  way,  and  never  knew  till  afterwards " 

"I  can't  whistle,"  the  soldier  interrupted  Deb.  "But  I'll 
do  all  the  rest  of  the  stunts.  Good-bye,  Jenny,  my  darling; 
I've  been  a  fearful  rotter  .  .  ."  his  voice  broke  in  mock  pathos. 
Secretly  he  was  rather  glad  of  this  burlesque  which  covered 
any  necessity  for  real  pathos;  because  he  was  so  happy,  he 
just  could  not  pretend  otherwise. 

"I'm  —  not  —  in  —  pain!"  gasped  Jenny.  "See  —  I'm 
smiling  .  .  .  quite  a  beautiful  smile,  isn't  it?  Perhaps  I  shall 
be  well  .  .  .  tomorrow.  No,  I  sha'n't !"  she  screamed.  "No 
tomorrow  for  me.  Soldier  .  .  .  don't  —  don't  go.  .  .  .  Wait 
till  .  .  .  I  .  .  ." 

"Sweetheart,  I  can't;  you  might  be  ever  so  long  about  it, 
and  I  really  must  be  off.  Good-bye,  Jenny;  good-bye,  Deb  "; 
he  lingered  a  moment  still,  though  it  was  evident  that  every 
nerve  in  him  was  chafing  at  the  delay.  "You've  been  so 
awfully  decent  to  me,"  he  repeated,  sincerely  this  time.  And 
he  kissed  first  Jenny  and  then  Deb,  in  boyish,  spontaneous 
gratitude. 

So  they  gained,  quite  without  effort,  what  they  had  set  out 
to  gain,  that  evening. 

"  Good-bye !  "  the  door  slammed  behind  him  in  sheer  ex- 
uberance of  high  spirits.  Then  repetition  of  the  same  business 
with  his  bedroom  door.  Then  silence.  And  the  room  a  black 
pall  now,  with  just  a  last  faint  quaver  of  light  —  suddenly 
quenched. 

It  was  unnecessary.  Deb  reflected,  that  he  should  have 
shown  himself  to  them  in  this  new  splendour  of  recovered 
buoyancy.  ...  It  was  bad  enough  before.  .  .  .  Her  fancy, 
feverishly  active,  followed  his  taxi  along  the  streets,  followed 
him  up  the  steps  and  past  the  front  door  of  the  house  in 
Campden  Hill  —  into  the  room  where  a  woman  waited 

Fancy  was  jesked  to  a  standstill  here;  he  would  utter  her 
name;  what  was  it?  —  Cicely? — Irene? — Eleanor?  .  .  . 
Yes,  she  could  hear  his  voice  speaking  any  of  these  .  .  .  very 
low  and  taut  ..."  Eleanor  "... 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  83 

Then  of  course  he  would  kiss  her.     Well.  .  .  . 

And  for  the  girl  who  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  the  knowl- 
edge of  having  made  —  rather  an  exhibition  of  herself.  It  did 
not  help  much  that  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  incident. 
The  main  thing  was  that  she  remembered  it.  Would  always 
remember  it. 

She  thought  she  heard  a  little  sigh  from  the  bed.  Jenny! 
.  .  .  quick  and  warm  came  to  Deb  realization  of  the  blessed 
solace  of  a  companion  in  suffering.  Jenny  would  just  under- 
stand, as  she  never  failed  to  understand  the  simple  everyday 
things  such  as  hunger  and  pain  and  the  loss  of  love.  Jenny 
would  heal  her  with  that  wonderful  touch  of  hand  and  cheek 
that  was  like  balm.  .  .  .  Deb  felt  shivery  and  childish  and 
desolate.  .  .  .  She  laid  her  head  down  on  Jenny's  breast, 
and  lay  for  several  moments  quite  still,  waiting  for  comfort  to 
steal  into  her.  She  was  glad  that  Jenny  did  not  attempt  to 
talk  about  what  had  happened. 

Suddenly  Deb  started  away,  wildly  frightened.  Why  — 
Jenny's  heart  was  not  beating.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VI 


RICHARD  found  his  Easter  holidays  dull.  Montagu  Hall 
was  not  a  satisfactory  substitute  for  Daisybanks,  where 
he  had  owned  his  own  carpentering  shed  in  the  garden, 
in  which  he  might  rampage  as  he  pleased.  Ferdie  had  been 
an  understanding  father  in  supplying  Richard  and  Deb  with 
full  facilities  to  rag  and  to  rampage.  Now  Richard  passed 
most  of  his  time  reading  books  that  dealt  with  the  practical 
side  of  the  war,  and  keeping  fit  in  preparation  for  when  he  was 
eighteen.  Perhaps  he  could  squeeze  himself  in  next  year 
already  by  misstating  his  age  .  .  .  there  was  always  the  dread- 
ful possibility  that  the  war  might  suddenly  come  to  an  end, 
and  leave  him  what  it  had  found  him,  a  Winborough  fifth  form 
boy. 

He  was  glad  when  the  last  week  of  the  holidays  came  round; 
Deb  was  always  with  some  girl  —  Antonia  Verity;  and  most 
of  his  chums  being  older  than  himself,  were  scattered  about 
the  country  in  training,  or  else  in  the  trenches.  David  Roth- 
enburg,  of  course,  was  about  the  same  age;  but  Rothenburg 
was  a  moony  sort  of  chap,  especially  lately.  More  from 
boredom  than  affection,  Richard  spent  an  afternoon  at  Bertie 
Eraser's  home  in  the  south-west  of  London.  The  news  of  the 
torpedoing  of  the  Lusitania  had  come  through  a  couple  of 
days  before;  and  the  two  boys  vented  some  of  their  hot  in- 
dignation by  experiments  with  a  model  submarine  which  should 
"  damn  well  teach  the  blackguards  not  to  mess  about  with 
our  passenger  liners!  " 

"  I'll  put  you  on  your  way,"  Eraser  volunteered,  when 
Richard  had  to  go. 

They  turned  from  the  quiet  street  of  houses  into  a  mews; 

84 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  85 

then  through  a  slum  displaying  barrows  with  highly-coloured 
wares,  gaudy  with  small  shops  gustily  illuminated,  raucous 
with  slatternly  women  calling  from  the  upper  windows  to 
their  offspring  in  the  gutters. 

"  Short  cut  to  the  trams,"  explained  Eraser.  "  Hullo,  what's 
the  row?  " 

A  woman  was  huddled  on  a  doorstep,  wailing  loudly,  openly, 
without  any  pretence  of  hiding  her  stark  grief.  Her  wisps  of 
grey  hair  were  blown  by  the  wind  flat  across  her  distorted  face, 
which  she  neither  burrowed  in  her  arms  nor  covered  with  a 
handkerchief.  For  she  had  just  received  tidings  that  her 
daughter  had  gone  down  in  the  steerage  of  the  Lusitania,  and 
she  wanted  God  and  man  to  know  it. 

A  knot  of  sympathizers,  neighbours  and  casual  passers-by, 
stood  dumbly  around  her,  listening  to  the  saga  of  Ethel  Ann's 
childhood,  and  Ethel  Ann's  adolescence,  and  Ethel  Ann  en- 
visioned powerfully  but  crudely  as  a  human  livid  face,  strug- 
gling, gulping,  pleading  for  help  .  .  .  help  refused.  .  .  . 
"  They  pushed  'em  back  into  the  water !  "  screamed  the  old 
crone.  "  My  little  'un.  Curse  the  Germans !  —  Curse  'em ! 
They  watched  'er  drowning,  and  they  laughed.  A-a-aaah  .  .  ." 
articulation  trailed  away  into  a  long-drawn-out  cry  of  rage 
and  mourning  and  hate.  She  strained  her  skinny  arms  in  a 
tight  line  upward,  as  though  in  one  gesture  could  be  uttered 
all  that  her  tongue  had  failed  to  say. 

Richard  felt  it  was  impossible  just  to  stand  still  and  look  on 
at  this.  He  glowered  about  him  in  a  spirit  of  desperate  trucu- 
lence.  The  others  of  the  group  were  in  exactly  the  same  case, 
their  eyes  roaming  stupidly  up  and  down  the  narrow  street, 
as  though  in  search  of  some  immediate  measures.  A  carter 
leaning  against  his  dray  drawn  up  to  the  kerb  opposite,  spoke 
out  fiercely: 

"Ay.  'Uns.  That's  the  sort  they  are.  Wish  I  'ad  one  or 
two  under  my  fist  now.     I'd  show  'em  what  for." 

"  You  have  got  'em  under  your  fist  now  —  plenty  —  if  you 
know  where  to  look!  "  A  lantern-jawed  man  with  the  hollow 
eyes  of  a  fanatic,  sprang  onto  the  tail-board   of  the  dray. 


86  DEBATABLE  GROUND 

At  once  he  formed  a  vortex  for  all  the  loose  and  aimless  emo- 
tions adrift  in  that  street.  Richard  and  Eraser  found  them- 
selves in  a  wedge  of  men  and  women,  women  predominating, 
swaying  with  that  sort  of  concerted  drunken  rhythm  peculiar 
to  all  crowds.  Even  the  mother  of  the  drowned  girl  stopped 
her  wails,  and  stared  fixedly  at  the  demagogue. 

"  Germans  everywhere  in  this  country  —  millions  of  'em, 
laughing  up  their  sleeves  because  we're  such  ruddy  softs  as 
not  to  chuck  'em  out.  Laughing  now,  I  expect,  over  our  women 
and  children  pushed  back  into  the  icy  water;  English  women 
and  children.  Yes,  it's  a  good  joke,  ain't  it?  First-class! 
...  I  'ad  a  pal  on  the  Lusitania  —  well,  never  mind  that  — 
there's  some  'ere  as  'ad  more  than  pals.  Are  we  going  to  stand 
it  —  that's  what  I  want  to  know?  Are  we  going  on  trading 
with  murderers  and  cowards,  living  cheek  by  jowl  with  'em, 
buying  our  very  bread  from  'em  .  .  .  poisoned  bread!  I  tell 
you,  there  are  Germans  in  the  next  street,  in  this  street,  and  in 
a  thousand  other  streets  in  England,  with  their  dirty  names 
over  the  shop-windows.  Ask  the  Government !  —  ah !  the  Gov- 
ernment'll  do  something  about  it,  per'aps,  by  and  by.  Ask 
'em  —  they'll  say  they've  took  the  proper  measures  of  precau- 
tion. We  don't  want  precaution,  thank  yer  all  the  same.  We 
want  revenge  on  the  foul  scum  what  sank  the  Lusitania!  We 
want  revenge  —  not  by  and  by,  but  now!  We  want  revenge  — 
and  by  the  dying  agonies  of  our  children,  and  for  the  sake  of 
those  they've  left,  we'll  have  it!  " 

His  hearers  had  been  like  empty  bottles  offering  no  resistance 
to  the  fiery  liquid  he  poured  into  them.  Yes  —  they  wanted 
instant  revenge;  that  was  what  they  had  sought  by  their 
vacant  stares.  With  a  scattered  nowl,  from  which  the  human 
element  seemed  long  since  to  have  been  drained,  they  swirled 
up  the  street.  Richard  was  borne  along  by  the  impetus  of 
their  fury.  He  had  lost  sight  of  Eraser,  who,  missing  him, 
had  probably  returned  home;  it  did  not  matter;  this  was 
rather  a  lark  —  one  of  the  Lusitania  riots;  they  had  been  break- 
ing out  all  over  London  since  the  news  had  come  through. 
No  —  not  exactly  a  lark  ...  it  swelled  into  something  more 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  87 

formidable  and  animated  by  a  spirit  of  deeper  satisfaction 
than  warranted  by  the  schoolboy  description:  this  was  action; 
this  was  war;  he  was  in  direct  contact  with  it  at  last.  A  gang 
of  men  in  an  ugly  temper,  running  in  a  set  direction  ...  he 
could  feel  purpose  behind  the  lurching,  staggering  passage 
of  the  mob.  .  .  .  They  were  on  their  way  to  punish  the  Ger- 
mans —  coarse  hulking  giants  who  could  laugh  at  Ethel  Ann's 
drenched  face  helpless  in  a  green  tumble  of  breakers.  .  .  . 
Brutes!  damned  brutes!  we'll  show  them !  .  .  . 

This  was  all  the  jerky  elated  comments  his  brain  could 
register  during  the  headlong  stampede  up  the  cramped  alley; 
that  —  and  a  confused  impression  of  the  women's  faces  here 
and  there  patching  the  rest:  streaming  hair,  with  the  iron  pins 
still  clumsily  caught  in  it;  mouths  open  and  awry;  damp  red 
skins.     Mob-women  —  they  were  hideous.  .  .  . 

The  lantern -jawed  man,  still  leader,  halted  abruptly  in 
front  of  a  small  baker's  shop.  "  What  about  that?  "  denun- 
ciatory forefinger  thrown  out  to  indicate  the  name  painted 
over  the  window:  Gottlieb  Schnabel.  The  crowd  replied  by 
another  exultant  howl  ...  it  was  beginning  to  merge  its 
separate  identities  into  the  Demos-beast,  at  once  frightful  yet 
silly;  incapable  alike  of  retreat  or  initiative;  a  beast  that 
uttered  meaningless  sounds;  could  be  deflected  hither  and 
thither;  a  beast  without  logic  or  coherence;  but  a  beast  that 
was  out,  very  obstinately,  to  maul  somebody  .  .  .  the  Ger- 
mans. .  .  . 

"What  about  that?" 

Those  in  the  van  swerved  so  sharply  into  the  little  doorway 
of  the  shop,  that  their  comrades  immediately  behind  them 
could  not  restrain  themselves  from  reeling  past  it  by  weight 
of  impetus;  then  turned,  and  pressed  back,  with  a  violent 
impact  jamming  the  rearmost  in  the  narrow  aperture;  so 
that  it  seemed  that  dark  menacing  figures  were  springing  out 
of  the  shadows  from  all  sides  and  directions,  into  the  pallid 
flare  of  the  gas-jets  singing  forlornly  over  the  counter. 

The  shop  was  deserted.  Violent  hands  ripped  down  the 
curtains  that  divided  oflf  the  back-parlour,  and  about  a  dozen 


88  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

roughs  hurled  themselves  up  the  stairs,  chanting:  "  Schnabel: 
Schnabel!  "  in  hideous  sing-song.  Their  feet  could  be  heard 
trampling  the  upper  premises  in  search  of  the  owner:  "  Come 
aht  of  it,  yer  bloody  funk!  Wot  abaht  the  Lusitania?  "... 
The  shop-door  swung  backwards  and  forwards  in  the  draughts 
of  wind  which  blew  down  the  street;  and  at  each  oscillation, 
a  little  bell  tinkled  the  warning  of  customers  —  an  innocent 
tinkle,  like  a  distant  sheep-bell  .  .  .  inadequate  tinkle  that 
recurred  thinly  through  all  the  chaos  of  heavier  sound: 
Crash  of  splintered  glass,  as  the  scales  and  weights  were  sent 
flying  through  the  front  window  of  the  shop.  The  majority 
of  avengers  were  working  off  their  blood-lust  by  hullabaloo 
and  wreckage;  tossing  about  the  buns  and  cakes;  swinging  and 
smashing  the  rows  of  big  sweet-bottles;  sending  a  hurricane 
of  piled-up  bread-baskets  over  the  floor.  It  had  been  a  neat 
little  interior,  three  minutes  before  .  .  .   ! 

But  Richard  was  impatient  of  all  this  mere  monkey  de- 
struction; his  imagination  was  a-sweat  to  vent  itself  upon 
Germans,  not  upon  rolls  and  doughnuts.  He  raced  up  the 
back  stairs  —  and  down  again;  no  Germans  there;  and  the 
rioters  engaged  in  the  same  stupid  business  of  destruction. 
But  the  Germans  .  .  .  pointed  steel  helmets,  puff'ed-out  cheeks, 
and  thick  sensual  lips  —  where  had  they  contrived  to  stow 
themselves  away?  The  notion  had  got  started  that  they  were 
here  .  .  .  somewhere  .  .  .  the  excited  boy  did  not  stop  to 
reason  it  out.  He  wanted  to  batter  with  his  fists  against  a 
fat  resisting  carcase.  Here?  —  of  course  they  were;  somebody 
had  said  so.  Dodging  the  volley  of  loaves,  he  bolted  out  of 
the  shop,  and  round  the  corner  to  the  tiny  yard  at  the  back, 
unheeding  whether  he  were  alone  or  followed.  The  bake- 
house!—  must  be  one  under  the  shop.  Yes  —  beneath  this 
wooden  flap.  Guided  by  the  hot  good  smell  of  bread  in  the 
oven,  he  wrenched  at  the  hinges;  and  rashly  taking  the  ladder 
for  granted,  plunged  into  the  gaping  black  space.  Fragments 
of  tales  relating  the  Lusitania  horrors  were  flying  loosely 
about  in  his  mind,  like  the  loaves  in  the  shop:  sickening 
details  gasped  out  by  the  dazed  survivors,  and  written  up  for 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  89 

the  public  in  lurid  journalese.  Fighting  —  was  that  the  Hun 
idea  of  fighting?  —  swine!  cheats!  butchers! — his  turn  to 
show  them  now.  .  .  . 

Richard  bumped  his  feet  on  level  ground;  he  blinked  an 
instant  in  the  red  dimness  of  his  surroundings  .  .  .  then, 
gradually,  a  face  swam  into  his  consciousness  —  a  face  over 
there,  by  the  barrels  —  a  face  smeared  in  flour,  and  channelled 
by  the  drip  of  perspiration  —  a  face  that  would  have  been 
ludicrous,  were  it  not  for  its  expression  of  deadly  shivering 
fear  .  .  .  trapped  fear.  .  .  . 

With  knowledge  of  utter  helplessness  in  his  fascinated  gaze, 
he  confronted  Richard.  Beside  him,  a  plump  woman  and  two 
or  three  children  crouched  in  a  shadowy  lump. 

No  army  of  Germans  here.  Only  the  little  baker,  Gottlieb 
Schnabel,  and  his  family. 

He  stared  at  Richard.  Richard  stared  back.  And  then  his 
swollen  illusion  was  pricked  and  shrivelled.  So  this  was  the 
reality  of  what  he  had  been  vengefully  hounding  down,  he  and 
the  bawlers  overhead?  this  one  peaked,  unhappy  little  face, 
white  with  dabs  of  flour,  white  in  the  last  dumb  extremity  of 
panic. 

Schnabel's  dry  lips  moved  convulsively.  .  .  .  "Ach,  bitte," 
he  babbled;  then,  with  an  eflfort:  "  Can  —  I  —  help  —  for  — 
it?  "... 

Richard  just  caught  the  words.  He  recoiled;  turned  and 
stumbled  up  the  ladder.  .  .  .  One  must  get  away  from  that 
face.  .  .  .  Not  so  easy  —  some  of  the  crowd  had  followed  him 
after  all,  were  swarming  round  the  entrance  to  the  bakehouse. 
"  There's  no-one  there,"  muttered  Richard ;  "  no-one  there  " 
...  his  voice  was  choked  as  though  in  a  thick  fog  ..."  no- 
one  there "     But  the  main  thing  was  to  get  out,  into  the 

street,  before  they  began  to  do  things  —  no,  that  did  not  mat- 
ter,—  but  before  he  could  hear  them  doing  things.  They  were 
pressing  him  back  again,  down  again.  ..."  There's  no  one 
there,  I  tell  you!  "  Blindly  he  buff'eted  right  and  left  the 
heads  which  blocked  his  passage.  Some  of  them,  believing 
him,  gave  way  .  .  .  melted  out  of  reach  from  his  hard  fists 


90  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

and  powerful  driving  shoulders.  Others  went  shuffling  and 
clattering  past  him,  down  the  wooden  rungs.  "  Schnabel ! 
Schnabel !  " —  and  a  sharp  scream.  One  must  get  away, 
quickly.  .  .  . 

A  great  surge  of  bodies  in  the  yard.  Thrusting  forward, 
with  his  head  low  down,  through  a  rank  smell  of  boots  and 
corduroys  and  rusty  skirts,  Richard  got  clear  at  last.  Round 
the  corner  —  into  the  street  —  a  number  of  people  running  in 
his  direction  —  three  or  four  policemen.  "  There's  no-one 
there!  " — half -sobbing,  he  dodged  through  a  mews  into  a 
wider  street;  again  that  loud  trample  of  feet  beating  towards 
him  —  would  they  never  let  him  escape?  he  wanted  to  be  free 
of  mobs.  What  did  this  mob  want?  Schnabel?  .  .  .  No, 
it  was  only  a  helter-skelter  of  gnome-like  urchins,  shrieking 
hoarsely  their  late  editions.  He  paused  to  draw  breath;  leant 
up  against  an  adjacent  wall;  his  cap  had  gone  long  ago,  and 
the  wind  blew  in  hard,  fresh  gusts  through  his  hair. 

Presently  he  walked  on  again,  slowly.  Hysteria  had  evap- 
orated, and  was  replaced  by  the  usual  shame.  Now  he  came 
to  think  over  the  matter  coolly,  what  had  so  upset  him?  The 
little  rat  of  a  baker  had  been  in  a  funk,  certainly;  probably 
justified;  probably  the  rabble  had  handled  him  fairly  roughly. 
What  of  that?  Ethel  Ann,  equally  innocent,  equally  help- 
less, had  met  with  an  infinitely  worse  fate. 

Oh,  he  was  not  going  to  take  part  in  the  baiting  himself. 
No  sport  in  it.  The  wisest  course  to  pursue  had  been  to  depart 
from  the  scene,  as  he  had  done.  Had  he  "  departed  from  the 
scene "  or  made  an  exit  rather  less  dignified  than  that  in- 
ferred? Well,  he  could  hardly  be  expected  to  stay  and  look 
on.  Nor  could  he  have  protected  Schnabel  —  hang  it!  the 
man  was  a  German.  Not  "  the  Germans  " —  but  still  a  Ger- 
man. Richard,  impatiently,  classified  the  whole  experience 
as  "  quite  a  decent  scrum  " ;  and  as  such,  stuck  it  up  on  a 
shelf  in  his  memory,  like  a  book  with  several  pages  safely 
gummed  together.  He  proved  to  be  in  a  completely  strange 
neighbourhood;  and  devoted  all  his  present  faculties  in  dis- 
covering the  whereabouts  of  Montagu  Hall. 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  91 

u 

"  Richard,  is  that  you?  " 

"Yes,  Pater;  I've  just  come  in." 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  my  boy." 

"Right-o!  "  Richard  turned  on  the  stairs,  interrogatively. 

"  Not  here.     In  my  room." 

Old  Hermann  Marcus  looked  up  with  a  queer  gleam  in  his 
eyes,  as  Richard  and  Ferdie  entered.  Almost  as  though  he 
were  sorry  for  the  boy  —  and  yet  secretly  and  maliciously 
triumphant. 

"How  are  you  getting  on  at  Winborough?  "  Ferdinand 
asked  jerkily,  after  a  pause. 

"Same  as  usual:  excellent  all-round  ability,  but  no  out- 
standing merit,  as  old  Skeffington  says.  I  say,  dad,  would 
you  have  any  objection  if  I  joined  up  next  year  already?  " 
since  his  father  had  seemingly  nothing  of  any  importance  to 
impart,  Richard  thought  he  might  as  well  use  the  formal  inter- 
view for  his  own  purpose. 

"Joined  up  what?  " 

"The  army,  of  course.  Royal  Flying  Corps,  for  choice; 
I'm  fit  enough  to  stand  the  medical  test.  And  lots  of  fellows 
are  passing  themselves  off  as  older  than  their  age.  Only  I'm 
not  very  tall  .  .  ."  his  tone  implied  reproach  for  his  father's 
lack  of  inches.  There  was  silence  for  a  moment;  he  felt  the 
two  men  were  not  attending  to  his  requests  as  they  should;  so 
he  went  on  in  further  explanation:  "It's  rotten  to  be  just 
under  age  for  enlisting.  Different  if  you're  a  kid,  and  out  of 
it  altogether.  Rogers  —  you  remember  him?  he  was  head  boy 
at  Winborough  —  Rogers  is  only  eighteen  months  older  than 
I  am,  and  he's  in  the  thick  of  it.  And  today  more  than 
ever "  he  stopped  dead. 

"Why  today  more  than  ever?  "  Ferdinand  enquired,  very 
gently. 

Richard  was  not  quite  sure  why:  except  that  today  he  had 
expended  a  lot  of  heat  and  energy  on  a  cause  which  had 
repaid  him  neither  in  vigorous  defence  nor  in  ultimate  satis- 


92  DEBATABLE  GROUND 

faction;  and  he  wanted  an  experience  of  real,  substantial  war 
and  real,  substantial  Germans  to  make  up  for  the  futile  civilian 
imitation.  But  he  was  unwilling  to  explain  all  this  about 
Germans  in  front  of  his  grandfather,  or  even  to  his  father, 
who  might  be  subject  to  occasional  sensitive  twinges  on  that 
score.     So  he  swerved  from  the  direct  question: 

"  Quite  frankly,  dad,  I  mean  to  enlist  next  year,  with  or 
without  permission.  But  I  thought  I'd  like  to  hear  if  you 
have  £my  special  objection;  good  of  me,  isn't  it?  "  laughing. 

"  Certainly  I  should  be  proud  and  glad  if  you  could  fight 

for  England,  but "  Ferdie  evidently  found  an  increasing 

difficulty  in  going  on.  He  took  up  an  evening  paper  from  the 
table:     "Have  you  seen  the  late  editions,  Richard?  " 

"No.     Any  news?     Not  —  not  a  defeat?  " 

"  The  Prime  Minister  has  made  certain  promises  .  .  .  there 
have  been  more  anti-German  riots  over  this  Lusitania  busi- 
ness   " 

"  Conceited  fools,  who  haven't  the  brains  to  win  a  victory 
at  the  Front,  think  themselves  patriots  if  they  break  a  few 
shop-windows,"  growled  Marcus  from  his  corner. 

Richard  flushed  darkly,  and  his  hands  clenched  in  his 
pockets :  "  They'd  be  doing  the  same,  and  much  worse,  to 
us  in  Germany,  if  we'd  established  ourselves  all  over  the  place 
there,  as  they  have  here.  And  the  sinking  of  the  Lusitania 
was  a  foul,  cowardly  afi^air;  no  wonder  we've  lost  control  of 
our  tempers,  hearing  about  it." 

"  We?  "  echoed  the  old  Bavarian,  with  a  sarcastic  inflexion; 
"  and  you  as  German  as  I,  my  boy !  You  won't  be  allowed 
to  forget  it  as  easily,  in  the  future." 

"Rubbish!"  said  Richard  shortly.  He  had  no  desire  to 
quarrel  with  his  grandfather,  who,  as  a  lonely  but  unyielding 
unit  in  enemy  country,  demanded  a  certain  chivalry  of  treat- 
ment.—  But  no  fellow  was  going  to  stand  being  called  a  Ger- 
man, nowadays!  "Have  you  done  with  me,  dad?  I'm  sorry 
about  the  fuss  in  the  papers,  but  it  will  all  blow  off^  presently. 
I  don't  think  they'll  do  anything  to  the  naturalized  Germans, 
anyway;  not  to  those  who  have  been  settled  in  England  as 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  93 

long  as  you."  He  sauntered  towards  the  door;  then  halted 
to  add  in  a  sudden  inspiration  of  diplomacy:  "The  sooner 
I'm  fighting,  dad,  the  better  for  you,  all  of  you.  A  son  in  the 
army  makes  a  huge  difference  to  public  feeling." 

"  That  depends  on  which  army  .  .  ."  threw  in  Hermann 
Marcus.  And  Ferdie  said,  with  a  stupendous  effort :  "You 
can't  fight  for  England  in  this  war,  Richard.  I'm  sorry,  as 
you  are  so  dead  nuts  on  it,"  carefully  negotiating  the  idiom. 
"  But  they  will  not  take  you.     You  are  a  German." 

Richard  burst  into  a  great  shout  of  laughter.  "What  rot, 
dad!  How  can  I  be  a  German?  I'm  as  English  as  they 
make  'em." 

"You  were  born  in  Germany.  And  I  was  not  naturalized 
at  that  date." 

"  Born  —  in  —  Germany?  " 

"  You  see,"  Ferdie  apologized,  miserably  avoiding  his  son's 
eyes,  "  your  grandfather  invited  us  to  pay  him  a  long  visit 
to  Munich.  I  and  Deb  —  and  your  dear  mother,  of  course. 
He  had  never  seen  little  Deb  .  .  .  she  was  seven  years 
old " 

"  A  quite  abominable  pest  of  a  child !  "  from  the  depths  of 
the  armchair  in  the  corner. 

"And  so  we  all  went  over.  And  you  were  born  there. 
Your  poor  mother  died  of  it  .  .  ."  he  cleared  his  throat,  and 
blew  his  nose.  "  That,  perhaps,  is  why  it  was  never  mentioned 
to  you." 

Ferdie  was  right.  He  had  felt  the  loss  of  Dorothea  so  keenly 
that  sentiment  demanded  of  the  household  that  her  death 
should  never  be  alluded  to.  Whence  followed  that  Richard's 
birth  was  likewise  hushed  up,  being  intimately  linked  with 
the  bereavement  and  all  its  tragic  circumstances.  He  had 
never  bothered  about  the  matter,  taking  it  for  granted  that, 
like  Deb,  he  was  born  at  Daisybanks. 

"  But,  father,  I  can't  be  a  German.  I  —  I  don't  like  Ger- 
mans. I  can't  stick  them  at  any  price."  His  tone  was  sharp 
with  the  first  agonized  belief  that  some  truth  might  lurk  in  the 
altogether  staggering  accusation  that  these  two  were  bringing 


94  DEBATABLE  GROUNP 

against  him.  "  I  don't  like  Germans.  And  we're  fighting 
them.  I'm  English  —  like  other  chaps.  You  can't  make  a 
fellow  German  by  saying  he  is,"  replied  commonsense,  assert- 
ing itself  over  a  frame  of  mind  which  was  almost  babyish  in  its 
reliance  on  the  repetition:     "  I  don't  like  Germans!  " 

And  then,  a  criminal  before  the  sternest  of  judges,  Ferdinand 
Marcus  made  his  confession: 

"  You  see  —  when  I  was  naturalized  afterwards,  you  —  you 
were  not  naturalized  at  the  same  time.  I  wanted  you  to 
choose  for  yourself  when  you  came  of  age;  to  be  free  to  make 
your  own  choice  for  one  country  or  another  —  for  any  country. 
I,  as  a  boy,  had  never  been  consulted  what  were  my  private 
wishes "  His  father  here  gave  utterance  to  a  grunt  preg- 
nant with  rich  opinions  of  the  unimportance  of  Ferdie's  wishes, 
whatever  they  might  have  been.  " —  It  should  be  different 
for  you,  I  said.  Who  knows  if  you  would  want  to  find  your- 
self a  British  subject,  in  twenty-one  years?  Time  enough 
then.     So  I  left  it  till  you  should  be  old  enough " 

"  It  didn't  strike  you,  I  suppose,  that  a  war  might  break 
out  in  the  meantime?  " 

"  It  did  not  strike  a  great  many  other  people,  Richard." 

"Doch!  every  one  but  an  idiot;  an  idiot  and  a  bungler 
.  .  .  with  your  prate  of  '  my  children's  rights,'  and  '  my  chil- 
dren's opinions '  and  '  my  children's  liberty.'  ...  A  bungler 
with  your  children,  like  with  everything  else,  you  are  bring- 
ing one  of  them  to  an  internment  camp;  we  will  see  to  what 
fine  end  you  bring  the  other." 

Richard  faced  roimd  sharply :  "  Is  that  what  it  means  for 
me?" 

"  We  cannot  tell  for  certain ;  I  will  make  an  appeal  on  your 
behalf " 

"  Damn !  I  don't  want  any  appeals.  It's  not  a  felony  to 
be  born  in  one  place  instead  of  another.     What's  the  law?  " 

"  By  pre-war  law,  you  took  your  father's  nationality  while 
you  were  a  minor  —  but  all  that  has  been  altered "  Fer- 
dinand took  up  the  paper:  "They've  been  lenient  so  far; 
but  all  this  agitation  —  the  Home  Secretary  has  had  to  make 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  95 

concessions  to  the  public.  They  are  rounding  up  enemy 
aliens  of  military  age;  that  does  not  concern  you  at  present. 
You  will  have  to  register  under  the  Five-Mile  Act  imtil  — 
until " 

"  Until  I'm  old  enough  to  have  enlisted,"  muttered  the  boy. 
"And  Deb?" 

"Deb  is  all  right;  she  was  born  in  England.  At  least  —  I 
must  see:  there  is  still  some  confusion  under  these  new  con- 
ditions as  to  whether  you  are  what  your  father  is,  or  where 
you  were  born.  And  they  alter  the  law  every  five  minutes. 
But  I  think  she  is  all  right." 

"  Good,"  with  a  breath  of  relief.     "And  you,  dad?  " 

"  They  are  not  persecuting  the  naturalized,  so  far.     There 

is  an  outcry  from  the  extreme  party,  but "  Ferdie  shrugged 

his  shoulders,  "  I  am  a  British  subject." 

"  And  grandfather?     And  Aunt  Stella?  " 

"  They  are  repatriating  the  old  people  and  the  women  and 
children.  But  exemptions  are  to  be  made  in  special  cases; 
Stella  has  been  a  resident  here  for  so  many  years " 

"  And  I,  being  a  cripple  of  nearly  eighty,  your  English  may 
have  the  kindness  to  allow  me  to  die  under  a  flag  which  I 
have  certainly  no  wish  to  live  under." 

"  Cut  all  that !  "  his  grandson  silenced  him  roughly.  "  It's 
rank  pro-German " 

"  German,"  Hermann  methodically  corrected  him.  "  /  at 
least  know  what  I  am." 

"And  Richard  and  I  also  know  what  we  are,  too,"  Ferdie 
shouted  warmly,  clapping  his  hand  on  Richard's  broad,  and 
at  that  moment  exceedingly  forbidding  shoulder ;  "  our  senti- 
ments for  this  country  of  ours  are  loyal  as  any  Britishers'; 
we  cheer  their  victories.  We  continue  to  salute  the  Union 
Jack  with  pride  in  our  hearts " 

"  Whatever  such  foolishness  you  may  commit,  liebe  Ferdi- 
nand, you  remain  only  half  an  Englishman." 

Ferdie's  resolute  bellow  gained  strength  with  every  caustic 
interruption  from  his  parent.  "  We  will  cheerfully  give  help 
where  we  are  permitted '* 


96  DEBATABLE  GROUND 

Richard  broke  in:  " — And  cheerfully  let  ourselves  be 
hoofed  out  where  we're  not?  No,  I'm  not  going  to  hang  round 
the  edges  of  patriotism  like  a  beggar.  Why  wasn't  I  told  of 
all  this  till  now?  " 

It  struck  Ferdie  that  Richard  was  at  times  disconcertingly 
like  his  grandfather.  "  Why  should  you  have  been  made 
worried  and  uncomfortable  at  school,  while  there  was  still  no 
need?  And  before  the  war,  what  did  it  matter  where  you 
were  born?  " 

"And  now,  what  else  matters  in  all  the  world?  "  the  first 
numbness  of  shock  had  passed,  and  Richard's  innermost  being 
was  plunging  in  every  direction  like  a  tortured  bull  caught 
inside  the  ring-fence.  "  You've  robbed  me  of  my  nationality 
—  professing  to  be  so  keen  on  my  happiness.  Born  in  Ger- 
many, and  lugged  over  to  England;  educated  in  England, 
and  allowed  to  take  it  for  granted  I  was  English,  and  all  the 
while  a  German  subject  —  in  God's  name,  where  do  I  belong? 
what  am  I?  who  can  claim  me?  Oh,  yes,  you've  been  jolly 
good  to  me,  I  don't  deny  that;  you've  spoilt  me;  you've  given 
me  everything  —  except  a  country.  But  to  shove  a  fellow  in 
a  position  where  an  outbreak  of  war  leaves  him  with  his  senti- 
ments in  one  place,  and  his  birth-certificate  in  emother,  is 
rather  overdoing  the  freedom-of-choice  stunt.  You  might  have 
known  all  along  I'd  care  to  be  rooted  somewhere.  Citizen- 
ship doesn't  go  for  nothing,  even  in  peace " 

"  Nonsense,  Richard ;  be  honest ;  how  much  did  you  trouble 
your  head  about  citizenship,  before  nineteen-f ourteen  ?  " 

"  I  thought  I  was  English,"  Richard  said.  And  repeated, 
with  a  sort  of  dazed  pugnacious  idiocy :  "  I  thought  I  was 
English."  Then  he  flared  out  again,  "  You  didn't  think  at 
all.  You  were  just  careless.  Why  on  earth  did  you  want  to 
take  me  to  Germany  to  be  born  ?  " 

"  I  have  told  you ;  your  grandfather  sent  for  us." 

"  It  wouldn't  have  hurt  him  to  wait  a  year  or  two.  Much 
he  cared  if  he  never  saw  any  of  you  again.  You  were  all 
afraid  to  say  no  to  him.  I  thought  myself  so  lucky  to  be  bom 
in  these  times.     What's  the  good  of  the  war  now?  " 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  97 

His  father  could  not  forbear  from  a  smile  at  the  savage 
young  egoism.  The  boy  saw  it,  and  raged  on :  "  It  would 
have  been  better  if  I'd  died  when  my  mother  died " 

"  Hush,  hush,  my  son." 

.  .  .  Richard  crashed  his  weight  on  to  a  chair,  head  butted 
down  on  his  arms  along  the  back  rail.  And  the  two  men 
watched  him  in  silence;  one  of  them  thinking  with  a  slow, 
grudging,  resentment  how  good  a  moment  it  might  have  been 
for  him  to  have  seen  this  youngster  in  an  officer's  light-blue 
uniform,  come  clanging  and  jangling  into  a  certain  house  in 
Munich,  to  bid  good-bye  before  his  departure  to  win  glory  for 
the  Vaterland.  And  the  other  was  vainly  groping  round  for 
what  comfort  he  could  give  his  only  son  in  trouble;  Dorothea 
would  have  so  known  what  little  tender  thing  to  do  or  say 
.  .  .  his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  in  his  over-anxious  en- 
deavour to  play  mother  at  this  juncture,  he  blundered  dis- 
mally: 

"  Come,  come,  my  boy  —  buck  up !  You  who  are  usually 
so  sensible.  It  isn't  such  a  tragedy,  even  if  it  should  end, 
at  the  worst,  by  internment.  You  will  be  safe,  and  with 
friends " 

Richard  slowly  lifted  his  head.  He  looked  rather  old  for 
sixteen,  and  his  voice  dragged  like  tired  footsteps  on  a  heavy 
road: 

"  Sorry  if  I  was  rude,  dad.  Yes,  of  course  I'll  be  safe. 
Much  safer  than  in  the  Flying  Corps.  I  didn't  think  of  that. 
I'm  going  to  bed  now.     Good-night." 

Half-way  across  the  room,  he  came  back  for  the  evening 
paper.    Then  he  went  out. 

Ill 

.  .  .  Strange  that  his  brain  should  have  shot  right  away 
from  the  main  catastrophe  on  to  this  tangent  question  of 
reprisals!  There,  out  in  mid-ocean,  a  liner  sunk;  here,  in  a 
London  slum,  a  baker's  shop  raided.  Where  was  the  con- 
nection? A  Gottlieb  for  an  Ethel  Ann.  .  .  .  "Yes,  but  is 
it  quite  fair  —  revenge  by  proxy?    it  wasn't  Schnabel   who 


98  DEBATABLE  GROUND 

drowned  Ethel  Ann;  it  was  another  German;  Schnabel  was 
all  the  while  harmlessly  selling  loaves.  Why  should  he  have 
to  pay?  "  Were  they  thinking  of  that,  the  mad  herd  who  had 
rushed  up  the  street,  brandishing  their  crowbars  and  axes  and 
pokers?  "Was  I  thinking  of  it?  To  relieve  one's  feelings 
.  .  .  biting  on  the  tooth  —  yes,  but  it's  got  to  be  that  especial 
nervous  tooth  —  and  you  should  want  to  hit  the  same  German, 
not  any  old  German,  or  the  next-best  German.  If  Ethel  Ann's 
mother  could  have  got  in  on  one  of  the  torpedo  crew  ...  I 
suppose  one  can't  expect  a  crowd  to  reason  that  way.  But 
I  might  have  saved  him.  .  .  .  Damn  it,  why  should  I?  he's 
a  German!  " 

And  so  am  I  —  and  so  am  I  —  knocked  the  meaningless 
hammer  refrain  from  the  walls  and  ceiling  of  his  room,  from 
every  corner  and  cranny;  in  the  wind  that  fitfully  rattled 
the  blind;  in  the  creak  of  the  chair;  and  from  the  rumble 
of  trafiSc  far  below.  ...  So  am  I  —  so  am  I  —  everywhere  but 
inside  his  brain,  where  the  mere  statement  might  have  been 
quickened  to  torturing  realization  —  but  it  seemed  unable  to 
force  an  entrance,  pushed  out  by  a  fantastic  jumble  of  odd- 
ments he  had  never  thought  out  before,  never  bothered  to 
think  out. 

—  Naturalized  .  .  .  what  exactly  did  that  stand  for?  A 
paper  which  was  given  in  payment  of  some  small  sum,  stating 
that  you  were  no  more  of  one  nationality,  but  of  another.  .  .  . 
But  surely  nationality  was  no  surface  matter,  to  be  dealt  with 
in  this  arbitrary  fashion?  it  went  deeper:  your  own  country, 
your  own  soil.  " '  Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead!  ' 
how  Eraser  ranted  that,  last  term  when  they  were  doing  Scott. 
Beastly  showing-off !  .  .  .  What  will  they  say  at  Winborough 
when  I  tell  them?  —  No,  hang!  that  wasn't  it.  .  .  .  National- 
ity —  the  place  where  you  were  born " 

A  dead  halt  in  the  onrush  of  thought.  Richard  stared 
blankly  around  him.  .  .  .  Then  it  began  again,  mental  ma- 
chinery that  whirled  ever  faster,  grinding,  minutely  grinding, 
at  all  that  stray  lumpy  stuff.  .  .  . 

"Nothing  to  do  with  where  you  were  born.    I  can  swear 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  99 

to  that.  That's  accidental.  And  your  father's  nationality  — 
accidental  too,  as  far  as  you're  concerned;  can't  be  tacked  on 
to  it  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"  What  is  it,  then?  The  land  that  holds  a  meaning  for 
you;  it  might  be  a  question  of  habitation,  or  tradition,  or 
convenience  —  herd  instinct  with  the  people  you  live  among. 
Or  —  or  imagination. 

"  No  —  it  digs  further  down  than  that  even. 

"  It  ought  to  be  the  sum  of  where  you  were  bom,  and  where 
your  father  was  bom  as  well,  and  his  father;  where  you  have 
always  lived,  and  always  hope  to  live." 

But  people  move  about.  Cross  over.  Get  mixed.  You  can- 
not actually  fasten  down  humanity  as  neatly  as  on  a  map; 
a  line  here,  and  a  line  there,  and  this  side  is  English,  and  this 
side  German.  During  all  these  years  of  peace,  little  separate 
individuals  busily  and  happily  intermarrying  and  begetting 
children;  becoming  entangled  in  trade  and  in  friendship; 
by  a  million  amenities  of  commerce  and  art  and  amusement 
and  family,  semi-obliterating  the  sharp  boundary  outlines 

"  People  drift  about.  And  then  a  war  happens.  Like  a 
ripping  of  canvas.  No  —  like  two  lines  of  trenches.  ...  A 
scramble  apart  to  either  trench  —  lucky  beggars  who  know 
quite  distinctly  where  they  belong.  And  No  Man's  Land  be- 
tween.    And  some  stranded  in  No  Man's  Land.  .  .  . 

"To  be  officially  of  No  Man's  Land  —  that's  one  thing; 
can't  be  helped;  penalty  of  carelessness  beforehand.  But  is 
it  possible,  I  wonder,  to  feel  yourself  not  for  one  country  nor 
another?  neither  mattering?  neither  victory  mattering? 

"  Socialism  —  international  socialism.  But  then  one  must 
care  principally  for  all  humanity  —  in  a  lump.  And  that's 
patriotism  too,  on  the  largest  scale  of  all.  Just  like  a  man 
crazy  only  on  his  own  duck-pond  is  a  patriot  —  a  local  patriot. 
All  Man's  Land  .  .  .  One  Man's  Land.  .  .  . 

"  Not  for  me,  thanks.  If  I  had  been  twenty-one  before 
all  this  shindy,  I'd  have  been  naturalized  English!  " 

Naturalized!  Was  that  only  an  official  cover  again?  And 
under  the  covers,  what  were  those  people  actually  thinking? 


100  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

The  Rothenburgs  and  thousands  like  them  —  the  half-and-half 
people.  .  .  . 

"  I  like  a  German  to  be  a  German  !"...*'  Naturalized  or 
unnaturalized,  it's  all  the  same  to  me!  "  .  .  .  "  Can  a  leopard 
change  his  spots?  "... 

Memory  offered  him  these  stray  phrases  perpetually  uttered 
and  repeated  in  a  penetrating  rasp  —  where?  ...  in  the  hall 
downstairs,  and  at  —  at  breakfast,  surely?  (memory  struggled) 
—  Oh  yes!  old  Gryce.  Behind  the  voice  a  crude  pink  face 
materialized,  with  an  ugly  sag  of  line  at  the  corners  of  the 
mouth  and  a  wisp  of  white  beard  wagging  from  the  chin. 
Old  Gryce  was  always  ejecting  that  type  of  remark. 

"  Intern  them  all !  ...  We  didn't  ask  them  to  settle  over 
here.     We  don't  want  them.  .  .  ." 

The  boy  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  head  bent,  hands 
locked  behind  him,  brows  heavily  knit,  thinking  it  out: 

Naturalization  was,  after  all,  a  promise  —  well,  a  bargain 
then;  what  was  a  bargain  but  a  mutual  promise?  A  whole 
community  had  learnt  to  rely  securely  on  such  a  promise;  had 
confidently  forfeited  the  protection  and  advantages  of  their 
native  land,  in  favour  of  an  adopted  country.  And  now  if 
their  security  were  repudiated  on  excuse  of  war 

"  Is  there  any  stipulating  clause  in  the  naturalization  con- 
tract, making  it  void  in  the  event  of  war,  I  wonder?  Because 
if  not 

"  But  we  can't  leave  enemy  blood  loose  about  the  country 
during  war-time.  It  isn't  safe.  They  might  all  be  spies. 
Some  of  them  are.  And  spying  is  the  worst  thing  of  all  — 
abuse  of  hospitality.  No  wonder  the  thought  of  it  drives  peo- 
ple to  a  sort  of  madness " 

He  took  up  the  evening  edition  —  flung  it  down  again;  too 
dark  to  read  anything  but  the  headlines:  "  More  Anti-German 
Riots" 

.  .  .  Some  one  crouching  low  in  the  comer  by  the  cupboard. 
A  patch  of  white.  A  face  —  mad-frightened.  .  .  .  "Ach, 
bitte "  .  .  .  The  little  German  baker. —  Or  ...  no  —  the 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  101 

face  had  changed  —  it  was  Richard  himself,  staring  panic- 
stricken,  yet  reproachfully,  at  that  other  Richard  who  was 
leading  against  him  a  hostile  mob: 

"He's  a  German!" 

"  And  so  am  I  —  and  so  am  I " 

It  had  stabbed  through  to  the  brain  at  last. 

"  I  'm  not  a  German.  It 's  a  lie.  I  'm  not.  I  hate  the  Ger- 
mans.    They  have  drowned  Ethel  Ann  .  .  .  Ethel  Ann  .  .  ." 

How  had  she  looked?  had  she  brown  or  fair  hair? — but 
all  hair  is  the  same  in  the  water  .  .  .  dank  seaweed  round  a 
discoloured  pulp.  .  .  . 

"Swine!  Swine!  " — he  was  pacing  again  with  rapid,  de- 
mented step.  "  That's  not  the  game  as  it  should  be  played,  as 
it  was  arranged  to  be  played.  It's  a  breach  of  the  rules. 
Women  and  children  and  non-combatants  excluded,  and  every 
man  with  a  chance  of  self-defence.  The  conventions  of 
war " 

And  suddenly  Richard  stood  still  and  began  to  laugh.  And 
what  chance  of  defence  had  a  man  standing  beside  a  bursting 
bomb  thrown  by  an  unseen  hand  from  fifty  yards  away? 
Little  silly,  fretful  rules  —  with  death  and  destruction  and  de- 
cay streaming  wide  over  one  country  after  another;  whirring 
in  the  very  air  above  God's  churches;  throbbing  in  the  sea  xmder 
the  millionaire's  pleasure-ship;  each  individual  helplessly  in- 
volved with  their  bodies  or  with  their  goods  or  with  their 
hearts.  Then,  what  the  devil  is  the  use  of  some  abstract  gabble 
about  the  conventions  of  a  game?  .  .  .  All  that  was  for  five 
hundred  years  ago,  when  one  soldier  had  it  out  with  another 
soldier  according  to  the  laws  of  chivalry.  But  in  this  whole- 
sale welter.  .  .  .  All  that  fuss  about  two  or  three  isolated  lives 
sacrificed  against  the  rules,  as  compared  to  the  thousands  ac- 
cording to  rule;  agony  outside  the  rules,  and  agony  according 
to  rule.  When  it  comes  to  it,  what's  the  difference?  Ludi- 
crous to  reason  in  the  old  way  —  the  ravings  of  an  idiot ;  we 
have  ramped  so  far  round  in  the  circle  of  civilization  that  we 
are  miles  behind  again.  .  .  . 

Richard  did  not  attempt  to  turn  his  feverish,  dishevelled  re- 


102  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

flections  into  coherence;  but  he  could  not  force  his  mind  from 
fastening  with  this  queer  new  tenacity  on  aspects  to  which,  un- 
til now,  it  had  been  muffled  to  a  remote  indifference.  The  war 
and  all  its  immense  and  tendril  complexities  —  how  could  he 
ever  have  viewed  it  just  as  a  matter  of  dealing  blows? 

"  It's  because  I  was  to  have  had  an  active  part  in  it.  I 
was  going  to  join  up.  The  only  way  to  avoid  war-horror  is  to 
take  part  in  it.  What  will  it  look  like  from  the  internment 
camp  ? " 


Imagination  pierced  —  and  recoiled  from  the  threatened 
nausea  of  stagnation.  Internment  .  .  .  why,  he  and  Deb  had 
joked  about  it  ("Yes,  Deb's  all  right;  I'm  glad  Deb's  all 
right!  ")  — Concentration  camps;  potted  Germans — "  Did  you 
know,  Richard,  Gustav  Fiirth  was  potted  yesterday?  "... 
Jokes!  —  What  were  they  like,  these  camps?  the  prisoners  were 
well-treated,  he  had  heard;  but  what  did  you  do?  .  .  .  Vision 
of  two  fattish  young  Teutons  sleepy  over  their  game  of  dom- 
inoes. This  for  him,  while  out  there,  out  there,  was  the  scrum 
and  the  sacrifice.  This  for  Richard,  who  was  a  fighter  .  .  . 
"Oh  God!  let  the  war  be  over  before  I'm  eighteen!  " 


PART  II 


T 


CHAPTER    I 

6i"J"T  was  your  pal  I  wanted  really  —  not  you,"  Antonia  Ver- 
ity  informed   Deb,   when   their   friendship   was   sturdy 
enough  to  withstand  such  frankness,  "  I  didn't  like  you." 
Jenny?  — Yes,  she  was  worth  fifty  of  me." 

"And  yet  you're  not  really  humble,"  the  other  laughed. 
"  Ring  for  tea.  Deb.  I'm  tired  of  seeing  you  brooding  like  a 
sphinx.  The  pleasure  grows  monotonous.  I  suppose  you 
can't  brood  while  you  eat  macaroons?  " 

"Easily;  they're  quite  dry  and  manageable." 

"  Tea,  please,  and  a  poached  egg  for  Miss  Marcus,"  Antonia 
commanded  of  the  servant.  "  I  can't  help  it  if  you  don't  want 
it.  Deb  —  you  must  be  cured  of  that  inscrutable  habit.  I  just 
can't  bear  it.  How  many  men  have  called  you  Sphinx  in  your 
exotic  career?  " 

"  All,  except  one  or  two.  It's  very  popular.  So  is  Serpent 
of  the  Nile  and  Cleopatra  and  little  Princess  of  Egypt.  When 
I  am  moved  to  cry  '  Yah,  chestnut!  '  to  these  endearments,  they 
offer  to  strangle  me  in  my  own  hair." 

"  Which  usually  hangs  down  in  readiness.  You're  the  only 
person  I've  met  outside  fiction  whose  hair  naturally  gravitates 
towards  your  heels.     Even  on  the  night  we  first  met " 

"Yes.  The  soldier  and  I  had  been  fooling.  .  .  .  Antonia, 
you  guessed,  didn't  you,  that  time  —  about  Jenny?" 

"  I  saw  that  she  was  really  ill  when  I  came  into  your  room. 
And  I  was  puzzled,  because  I  had  been  quite  sure  before,  that 
you  and  she  were  in  some  plot  to  escape  from  La  llorraine. 
But  I  doubt  if  she  knew  herself,  in  that  semi-hysterical  condi- 
tion, when  sham  ended  and  the  real  began.  What  did  she  ac- 
tually die  of?  " 

105 


106  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"Heart  failure.  She  was  weakened  by  a  lot  of  'flu,  and 
aspirin,  and  operations,  and  nursing  other  people.  I  ought  to 
have  known  the  difference.  But  she  was  always  wildly  emo- 
tional, and  almost  as  often  in  pain,  and  then  that  evening's  ex- 
citement   "  Deb  broke  off.     It  was  four  months  now  since 

the  night  when  Cora  had  lowered  her  flame  in  sympathy  with 
the  break-up  of  the  Chorus.  Four  months  —  and  Jenny  dead 
was  so  very  dead.  .  .  .  Her  memory  did  not  abide  as  linger- 
ingly  as  in  the  case  of  a  more  spiritual  or  more  intellectual 
personality.  A  warm  quick  reality  of  everyday  little  touches 
and  eager  practical  services  .  .  .  these  things  die  with  the 
flesh.  Deb  just  knew  that  neither  Cora  nor  the  room  nor  the 
soldier  nor  her  own  family  had  stood  for  home-always-on-the- 
tap  on  the  second  floor  landing,  as  Jenny  did.  And  the  little 
group  of  people  surrounding  Jenny  seemed  mechanically  to 
flop  away  in  different  directions,  after  that  evening.  Dolph 
took  Bobby  away  to  his  people.  La  llorraine  and  Manon  left 
Montagu  Hall  in  a  whirlwind  of  rage,  because  Mr.  Gryce  had 
complained  of  Madame's  breakfast  costume;  the  Turkish  slip- 
pers seemed  particularly  to  offend  him.  Of  the  Soldier  no 
more  had  been  heard.  And  even  Deb's  room  in  which  it  had 
all  happened,  was  abandoned.  "  D'you  mind  if  we  share  a 
double-room.  Deb?  "  Aunt  Stella  had  asked  rather  anxiously, 
about  a  month  later.  "  Now  that  Richard  is  coming  back  for 
the  Easter  holidays  and  will  want  a  den  of  his  own,  I  suggested 
it  might  be  a  saving  for  your  father  if  we  don't  scatter  quite  so 
much.  But  he  says  you  must  be  asked  first  if  you'll  consent 
to  sleep  with  a  soured  old  maid,"  with  that  tinkling  laugh  that 
never  sounded  quite  as  mirthful  as  the  spirit  it  accompanied. 

Deb  was  quite  glad  of  the  change.  The  associations  of  her 
old  bed  were  rather  poignant.  Stella  could  not  bear  the  smell 
of  Cora,  who  was  henceforth  packed  away  in  a  boxroom.  And 
Deb  began  to  wonder  if  all  her  life  would  be  a  succession  of 
disjointed  episodes,  each  with  its  full  complement  of  cast  and 
scenery,  and  each  when  it  was  over  to  be  slipped  as  easily  as  a 
bead  off  a  string.  Daisybanks,  in  the  careless  life  before  the 
war:  what  was  known  as  the  "  Portman  Rooms  set "  of  wealthy 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  107 

semi-artistic  young  Israelites  —  dances  —  the  river  —  frequent 
companionship  of  Hedvig  and  Lenchen  Rothenburg.  That 
bead  slipped.  Dorzheim,  and  its  marionette  figures:  Felix 
and  Marianna  Koch,  Sigismund  who  looked  like  Jesus  Christ, 
Ralph  and  Huldah  van  Sittart,  Elly  Ladenberg  from  Manches- 
ter, clearest  of  all,  perhaps,  the  upturned  face  of  Lothar  von 
Relling  .  .  .  They  existed  now  and  performed  their  parts,  hid- 
den away  behind  a  thick  black  curtain  .  .  .  what  matter  if  it 
were  never  raised  again.     Then  the  Chorus.  .  .  . 

What  next? 

After  a  pause,  Antonia  Verity  answered  that  question,  An- 
tonia,  following  up  a  whim,  came  to  Montagu  Hall  to  see 
Jenny.  Not  finding  Jenny,  she  knocked  at  the  door  of  Deb's 
former  bedroom.  Deb  was  just  moving  —  that  is  to  say  she 
was  sitting  dreamily  on  an  overturned  drawer,  in  the  midst  of 
a  scrum  of  her  possessions,  reading  a  mid-Victorian  novel  en- 
titled "  Anna  Lee,  Maiden,  Wife  and  Mother." 

"  Come  and  listen  to  this,"  she  bade  Antonia  without  further 
greeting. 

They  became  intimate  over  "  Anna  Lee." 

In  Antonia  Verity,  Deb  recognized  with  mixed  feelings  the 
temperament  she  had  always  most  coveted,  most  desired  to  find 
in  herself.  The  natural  Artemis,  Artemis  from  no  simpering 
prudery  nor  actual  coldness  of  disposition  —  but  that  Artemis 
who  instinctively  runs  from  the  pursuer;  Artemis  in  love  with 
her  own  chastity.  Her  eyes,  changing  from  hazel  to  green, 
deepest  in  shadow  and  drooping  at  the  corners,  were  at  per- 
petual war  with  the  pure  scissored  curves  of  her  mouth.  Deb 
was  aware  that  Antonia  could  never  deal  in  fragments  where 
her  love-affairs  were  concerned;  and  that  she  rather  wondered 
at  those  who  did.  It  seemed  therefore  a  foregone  conclusion 
to  Deb,  whose  mind  was  prone  to  run  on  lines  of  fairy-tale 
justice,  that  life  must  hold  for  Antonia  the  eventual  big  thing; 
bank  in  which  this  guarded  stored-up  treasure  would  ultimately 
find  safe  deposit.  It  remained  a  miracle  to  her  how  Antonia 
managed  not  to  fritter  the  treasure.  She  never  saw  that  trifles 
simply  did  not  happen  to  the  other  girl.    Men  .  .  .  knew. 


108  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

They  liked  her  peacefully,  but  some  fundamental  quality  in 
her  gave  them  their  cue  for  decent  behaviour  as  a  matter  of 
course.  As  a  same  matter  of  course,  they  embarked  on  amor- 
ous experiment  with  Deb ;  could  not  leave  her  alone.  And  this, 
though  Deb  longed  for  Antonia's  secret  to  attract  the  better 
treatment;  more  than  ever  admired  her  ideal  of  a  girl  clad  in 
a  sort  of  symbolic  moonwhite  armour,  now  that  it  had  become 
incarnate.  Though  she  had  been  often  to  Antonia's  studio,  she 
had  never  yet  succeeded  in  probing  a  certain  aloofness  in  her 
friend.  .  .  . 

Jenny  —  and  then  Antonia.  Jenny  whom  one  touched  .  .  . 
a  fervent  cosiness  of  friendship  punctuated  throughout  by  touch 
—  it  was  impossible  to  conceive  of  friendship  with  Antonia 
thus  emphasized.  Antonia  was  good  to  look  at  —  delicate, 
clean  lines  —  no  mess;  her  mind  clearly  braced  to  all  encoun- 
ter, whether  of  laughter  or  argument.  But  it  was  unthinkable 
that  one  should  touch  Antonia,  nor  seek  touch  from  her;  An- 
tonia guarded  something  ...  as  yet  inviolable. 

"Who  was  the  man  in  the  room?  "  Antonia  enquired  sud- 
denly, at  work  upon  her  portrait  of  Deb. 

"  Oh  —  he  was  —  a  —  a  man." 

"  Yes,  I  gathered  that  with  the  naked  eye." 

"  Incredible,  Holmes  —  it  passes  human  understanding." 

"  It  passes  human  understanding  what  that  gentleman  in 
shirt  sleeves  was  doing,  cooking  asparagus  in  your  room." 

"No  scandal  about  asparagus,  I  hope?  " 

"They  reeked  of  it  —  that  night." 

Deb  moved  restlessly.     "  Don't  be  priggish,  Antonia." 

"  It  isn't  priggishness.  Oh,  do  understand  that.  It's  — 
decency.  Not  towards  other  people,  but  towards  one's  self.  I 
don't  care  about  conventions.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  do  —  they  prevent 
litter  and  disorder  —  and  they  can't  really  get  deep  enough  to 
handicap  the  emotions.  Wliat  I  mean  was  that  I  don't  care 
about  opinion.     /  do  as  I  like." 

"  Well  then  ...  So  do  I." 

"  No.  A  man  in  your  bedroom  for  an  hour  or  two,  just  to 
talk  to  .  .  .  and  then  good-night  —  that's  not  doing  as  you 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  109 

like.  He  shouldn't  have  been  there  at  all.  Taking  you  and 
your  room  for  granted.     And  your  lips." 

"  He  never  kissed  me,"  said  Deb  in  a  very  low  voice. 

"  I  said  he  took  your  lips  for  granted  —  and  the  possibility 
of  them.  His  decision  is  beside  the  point.  Deb,  how  I  wish 
you  wouldn't!  " 

After  a  pause  the  other  girl  said,  "I  won't  ask  'what'? 
because  I  suppose  I  know.  .  .  .  And  I  agree  with  you.  We 
ought  to  save  it  all  up  for  the  one  man " 

"  No,  no,  no.  That's  merely  commercial.  To  keep  one's 
market  value  uncorrupted.  .  .  .  Manon  llorraine's  standards. 
Horrid  little  ingenue.  She  reckoned  every  look  thrown  to  that 
poor  begging  man  Carew  as  so  much  profitless  waste  of  virgin 
stock." 

"  I  must  say,  you  took  in  rather  a  lot,  that  one  hectic  evening 
at  Montagu  Hall." 

Antonia  rushed  on :  "  Not  to  save  all  up  for  the  one  man  — 
but  .  .  .  isn't  maidenhood  in  itself  rather  a  splendid  thing? 
I  wish  that  didn't  sound  so  affected.  This  isn't  the  Suffrage 
standard.  I  don't  hate  the  other  sex  —  not  a  bit.  I  like  them. 
But  .  .  .  just  to  be  proud,  and  not  slovenly." 

"  You  think  I'm  slovenly?  " 

"  I've  never  seen  you  for  more  than  a  minute  in  male  com- 
pany. But  I  fancy,  if  I  had,  I  should  have  wanted  to  cry  out 
every  minute:  '  don't  —  oh  don't!  '  " 

"As  bad  as  that?  "  lightly  Deb  had  to  feign  amusement, 
for  her  Artemis  girl  was  flickering  her  well  on  the  raw.  She 
remembered  how  she  had  experienced  just  that  desire  to  cry 
out  "  don't  "  when  Jenny 

So  she  stood  half-way  between  Antonia  and  Jenny.  But 
Jenny  had  been  married  —  and  Antonia  said  "  isn't  maidenhood 
in  itself  rather  a  splendid  thing?  " 

A  chill  white  dawn  faintly  shot  with  gold  .  .  .  for  Antonia? 
for  herself  and  Antonia?  But  surely  such  divine  hesitancy 
and  glamour  were  for  the  girl  of  eighteen,  seventeen,  sixteen 
.  .  .  wide  eyes,  intent  on  vision,  tremulous  childish  lips,  "  no 
gne  shall  kiss  me  imtil  he  comes.  .  .  ."    And  the  end  of  the 


no  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

legend  was  that  he  came,  and  kissed  her  —  just  before  she  was 
tired  of  waiting  —  at  twenty,  say;  or  twenty-one.  That  an- 
swered the  riddle  so  easily  for  young  Artemis.  But  if  the  leg- 
end missed  its  obvious  conclusion?  .  .  .  She  was  now  twenty- 
four,  and  Antonia  twenty-six  .  .  .  Antonia's  austere  demands 
were  rather  a  strain  on  passion  unsatisfied  in  the  late  twenties 
—  rather  a  strain  on  the  chill-white-dawn  ideal.  Antonia  at 
sixteen,  tingling  from  hot  indignant  scorn  at  anything  which 
ran  counter  to  her  unshaken,  unshakeable  school-girl  principles 
of  what  was  "  right  " —  Antonia  at  sixteen,  not  unlike  Deb  at 
sixteen;  dreaming  in  a  walled  garden  of  lilacs.  They  had  out- 
grown it 

What  now? 

Some  sort  of  a  compromise  ...  a  dream  semi-yielded,  semi- 
cherished.  .  .  .  Oh,  just  chance  it!  A  separate  code  of  rules 
for  every  transient  episode  —  or  none  at  all  —  or  trust  to  the 
moment's  inspiration  —  take  love  haphazard  —  compromise. 
.  .  .  Burton  Ames  had  left  her  possessed  by  the  very  despera- 
tion of  restlessness.  And  it  was  easier  now  to  give  lightly, 
since  striving  to  compete  with  Jenny,  she  had  once  broken 
bounds.  Jenny  had  died,  without  getting  what  she  wanted; 
Jenny  had  shown  how  easy,  how  frighteningly  easy,  it  was  to 
die  .  .  .  slip  away.  So  cram  in  something  at  all  costs,  lest  it 
should  happen  to  you  like  that.  .  .  . 

"  Here  you  are!  "  Antonia  threw  her  the  sketch  on  which  she 
had  the  last  half  hour  been  working.  It  was  a  startlingly 
clever  study  in  crayons.  Underneath  it  was  scrawled  "  Girl 
of  the  Transition  Period." 

Petulantly  Deb  flicked  it  away.  "  '  It's  pretty  —  but  is  it 
art?  '  "  she  quoted. 

"  No.     It's  psychology." 

"  Resume  of  our  conversation.  And  yet  my  people  allow  me 
to  do  what  I  please,  say  what  I  please,  go  where  I  please,  with 
whom  I  please  —  they're  awfully  broad-minded." 

"  That's  just  why  your  career  is  so  precarious,  my  wee  one. 
You're  up  against  nothing  —  except  your  own  extremely  hazy 
sense  of  self-respect.     If  your  father  and  your  Aunt  Stella 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  111 

were  saying  '  don't '  all  the  time,  and  locking  you  in  your 
room,  and  forbidding  men  the  house,  and  intercepting  letters, 
and  generally  behaving  as  we've  been  taught  the  Best  Parents 
ought  to  behave,  you'd  be  kept  busy  defying  them,  which  is  a 
quite  healthy  occupation.  At  the  worst,  in  a  mood  of  superla- 
tive defiance,  you'd  go  right  over  the  wall  .  .  .  well,  that's 
at  least  honest.  All  this  laxness  and  let-her-do-as-she-likes, 
and  '  I'm  sure  young  men  are  to  be  trusted  now-a-days '  .  .  . 
But  parents  are  not  to  be  trusted.  I  don't  know  what  parents 
are  coming  to.  My  mother  —  it's  her  sorrow  that  I  haven't 
yet  formed  a  Bold  Free  Union  for  her  to  countenance  and  en- 
courage   " 

"And  you  would  never  consent  to  do  it;  have  no  desire  to 
do  it.  It's  a  sad  waste  of  an  indulgent  parent,  Antonia.  Thou- 
sands of  girls  get  cursed  and  kicked  out  of  home  for  just  that 
boldness  and  freeness  which  your  mother  pines  to  find  in  y6u." 

"  The  darling !  —  it's  only  theoretical  pining.  Any  vivid  de- 
tails of  a  Bold  and  Free  Union  would  shock  her  beyond  words. 
I  suppose  the  truth  is  that  parents  are  thinking  too  much  — 
and  not  enough.  It's  still  only  surface  lenience.  They'd 
howl  quite  as  loudly,  and  break  their  hearts  quite  as  vehemently 
as  the  old-fashioned  parent,  if  we  really  transgressed." 

"  Father  would,  of  course,  which  puts  it  out  of  the  question." 

"  You  being  financially  dependent  on  him?  " 

"  Not  only  that.     I  happen  to  be  fond  of  him." 

Antonia  smiled,  a  sweet  slow  warmth  and  kindling  of  her 
wonted  frostiness.  "  Is  there  that  much  grace  in  you, 
woman?  " 

"  Though  you  didn't  allow  for  it  in  the  sketch  —  yes,  there 
is." 

"  I  won't  exhibit  the  sketch,  I  promise  you." 

"  Antonia,   dear "  Mrs.   Verity  stood,   with   one  hand 

pushing  aside  the  dark  blue  and  green  portiere  of  the  studio. 
A  neat  little  figure  in  a  black  dress  with  white  collar  and  cuffs; 
a  precise  little  spinster,  one  would  say,  from  a  novel  of  Jane 
Austen  or  Mrs.  Gaskell.  Manners  of  superlative  delicacy; 
speech  in  which  each  separate  syllable  was  clearly  articulated; 


112  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

a  habit  of  mind  which  seized  on  the  most  trivial  utterance  of 
others,  and  smoothed  it  out  flat  for  earnest  consideration.  Mrs. 
Verity's  personality  was  such  as  to  make  it  quite  credible  that 
Antonia  was  found  in  a  gooseberry  bush. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Miss  Marcus.  Are  you  quite  well ?  Yes? 
Really?  I  am  so  pleased.  It  is  delightful  to  find  you  here 
with  Antonia.  I  wonder  if  I  might  ask  for  a  cup  of  tea?  Not 
if  it  is  at  all  inconvenient,  Antonia.  I  can  order  it  in  the 
dining-room,  indeed  I  can.     Do  you  not  think  the  parks  are 

looking  lovely?     I  wonder  if But   I  interrupted  you, 

Miss  Marcus." 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing,"  said  Deb,  who  had  only  begun  an  aflGirma- 
tive:    "  Yes,  aren't  they?  "  in  reference  to  the  parks. 

"  Oh,  but  please,  please  say  what  you  were  going  to  say.  It 
was  unpardonably  rude  of  me  to  cut  you  so  short." 

"  It  wasn't  anything  worth  repeating,  Mrs.  Verity.  Do  go  on 
with  what  you  were  going  to  say  — '  I  wonder  if '  " 

"  No,  indeed,  that  can  quite  well  wait  till  you  say  what  you 
were  going  to  say." 

"  But  really  —  I've  forgotten  it,"  cried  Deb,  by  now  hysteri- 
cally incapable  of  the  "  Yes,  aren't  they?  "  of  her  original 
intention. 

"  My  fault;  how  could  I " 

"  Here's  your  tea,  mother ;  "  Antonia  smiled  mischievously 
down  on  the  punctilious  little  lady's  distress. 

Deb  stretched  her  limbs  lazily,  without  displaying,  however, 
much  determination  to  move.  She  was  rather  hoping  that  An- 
tonia would  invite  her  to  stay.     But: 

"  I  have  to  be  going  out  presently,  but  in  an  opposite  direc- 
tion, or  I'd  ask  you  to  wait  for  me." 

"Are  you  supping  with  Gillian?  I  thought  you  told  me 
you  expected  her  here;  Miss  Marcus,  do  you  not  agree  with 
me  that  Gillian  Sherwood  is  quite  a  remarkable  character?  " 

An  almost  imperceptible  contradiction  of  Antonia's  brows  ex- 
pressed impatience.  "  What  was  the  lecture  like?  "  she  asked. 
Deb  pondered  on  the  unknown  Gillian,  hardly  hearing  Mrs. 
Verity's  painstaking  description.     This  was  one  of  the  mo- 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  113 

ments  when  she  was  convinced  of  mystery  in  the  background  of 
Antonia's  life.  Why  had  she  never  mentioned  a  Gillian  who 
had  a  remarkable  character,  with  whom  she  was  on  terms  of 
supper?  Why  did  she  apparently  object  so  strongly  to  her 
mother's  introduction  of  the  name?  Why  was  she  on  certain 
occasions  so  anxious  to  rid  herself  of  Deb's  company?  Why 
was  she  so  vague  and  elusive  as  to  the  manner  in  which  she  had 
spent  the  foregoing  day,  or  intended  to  spend  the  morrow? 
Why  had  she  once  said  casually  "  Don't  drop  in  here  without 
letting  me  know.  Deb.  Always  'phone.  I'm  out  such  a  lot,  it's 
hardly  worth  your  while  to  chance  it.  .  .  ."  Antonia  herself 
was  always  "  chemcing  it  "  at  Montagu  Hall. 

A  second  door  in  the  studio  led  to  a  small  garden.  Beyond 
the  panes  a  tall  yoxmg  man  suddenly  loomed,  and  rapped  three 
times,  as  might  a  conspirator. 

"  It's  Cliffe  Kennedy,"  remarked  Mrs.  Verity,  and  nodded 
cheerfully  to  him.  Immediately,  as  though  at  some  signal  he 
opened  the  door,  strolled  in,  and  immediately  burst  forth: 
"  I've  just  told  a  man  that  his  wife  was  an  abominable  female! 
Yes,  an  abominable  female!  and  he  didn't  know  whether  to 
agree  with  me  or  not.  Antonia,  one  doesn't  put  tea  away  when 
a  visitor  comes.  One  brings  it  out. —  I  think  people  ought  to 
know  their  own  minds  about  that  sort  of  thing,  don't  you,  Mrs. 
Verity?  " 

Mrs.  Verity,  as  was  her  wont,  gave  the  matter  her  weightiest 
consideration  of  puckered  brow  and  clasped  fingers.  "  It  cer- 
tainly seems  to  me  of  the  utmost  importance  that  a  man  should 
be  aware  of  his  exact  state  of  harmony  or  disharmony  towards 
the  woman  in  whose  company  he  is  compelled  to  pass  at  least 
two-thirds  of  his  normal  existence,"  she  pronounced.  "  But 
perhaps  he  hesitated  to  express  his  opinion  to  you  in  the  fear 
that  it  might  by  some  means  be  carried  back  to  his  wife?  " 

"  Not  the  slightest  fear  of  that  —  she  was  there,  my  dear 
lady,  beside  him  at  the  very  moment  when  I  said  '  Your  wife  is 
an  abominable  female ' —  did  I  say  abominable  or  loathsome? 
I  forget!  — 'And  all  your  old  pals  including  myself  consider 
you've  ruined  yourself  by  marrying  her.    Throw  her  off,  man. 


ia4  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

throw  her  off!  '  That  was  the  time  for  him  to  agree  and  get  rid 
of  her.  Permanently.  No  woman  of  spirit  could  stop  with 
a  man  aware  of  the  opinion  of  his  pals.  But  he's  ruined,  I 
tell  you.  His  pluck  is  broken.  He  just  sniggered  and  moved 
away  backwards  conciliatingly ;  and  She,  the  hag,  the  doll, 
the  curly  hypocrite,  murmured:  *  Come  along,  Bertie!' — 
I  ask  you !  '  Come  along,  Bertie !  '  .  .  .  Antonia,  who's  that 
Florentine  page  lying  over  there  among  the  cushions  wonder- 
ing about  the  handsome  young  man  with  hair  like  the  village 
idiot?  " 

Deb  started  at  this  accurate  guess  at  her  reflections,  and  Cliflfe 
Kennedy  grinned  at  her  in  excellent  fellowship. 

Mrs.  Verity  exclaimed :  "  Forgive  me,  I  have  been  exceed- 
ingly remiss.  I  should  have  introduced  you  before,  indeed  I 
should.  How  could  I  have  neglected  to  do  so?  " — though  it 
was  hard  to  say  at  which  point  of  Mr.  Kennedy's  speech  she 
could  have  effected  the  introduction. 

"  This  is  Antonia's  great  friend,  Deb  Marcus.  Miss  Marcus, 
Mr.  Cliffe  Kennedy.  Cliffe,  I  will  think  about  the  problem  of 
your  friend  and  his  wife.  I  am  sure  you  meant  to  do  good  by 
your  intercession.  It  seems  to  me  a  great  pity  under  the  cir- 
cumstances that  they  should  be  definitely  and  not  merely  ex- 
perimentally married.     And  now,  since  we  may  not  meet  again 

today "     She  bade  good-bye  to  Deb  and  Kennedy,  patted 

her  daughter's  shoulder,  and  slipped  unobtrusively  away. 

"  Well,"  flung  out  Kennedy  to  Deb,  "  was  I  right  about  the 
village  idiot?  " 

She  glanced  at  his  golden  shock-head,  and  parried  to  save 
herself.  "  I  see  no  straws  spiking  in  every  direction  in  your 
hair." 

"And  you  can't  make  village  idiots  without  straw.  Good. 
Nor  can  you  break  camels'  backs.  Nor  tell  which  way  the  wind 
is  blowing." 

"  Nor  eat  ice-cream  sodas." 

"The  straw  is  a  useful  animal.  Awful  dearth  of  village 
idiots  because  Selfridge's  have  made  a  corner  in  straws  for 
their  soda  fountain.     Species  practically  extinct.    Sole  surviv- 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  115 

ing  specimen,  C.  Kennedy,  Esq.,  fireman,  pageant-maker  and 
pork-butcher.  Pageants  and  pork  while  you  pause.  Prepos- 
terous prices!  Antonia,  you  remember  my  inspiration  for  a 
grand  historical  pageant  of  barques  up  the  Thames  in  com- 
memoration of  the  death  of  Ethelred  the  Unready?  " 

"  I  remember  a  few  rough  suggestions  you  threw  out,  of  a 
sort  of  Lord  Mayor's  show,"  laughed  Antonia,  "  presenting 
every  sort  of  special  occasion  on  which  the  English  people  were 
notoriously  unready,  headed  by  Ethelred  himself,  refusing  to 
get  up  on  his  wedding-morning  because  he  had  overtired  him- 
self the  night  before,  taking  cinema  films  of  a  tortoise " 

"And  ending  with  a  symbolic  presentment  of  the  proverb 
*  Always  lock  the  stable  door  after  the  horse  has  got  away;  it 
does  no  harm  and  amuses  the  horse ' —  tableau  of  same,  with 
horse  smiling  happily  over  the  adjoining  hedge.  Would  you 
believe  it,  Antonia,  that  when  I  approached  the  Lord  Mayor 
on  the  subject,  and  put  it  to  him  that  this  was  the  undoubted 
moment  for  the  Educational  Value  of  such  a  moral  lesson  upon 
the  psychology  of  the  gritty-nosed  board-school  child,  and 
would  he  lend  me  some  of  the  comic  costumes  and  coachmen  he 
must  have  lying  about  from  his  own  piffling  show  —  Antonia, 
he  said :  '  Young  man,  are  you  aware  that  this  country  is  at 
war?  '  and  handed  me  a  white  feather  torn  from  the  hindmost 
of  a  flock  of  geese  who  happened  to  be  waddling  across  the  haU. 
I  didn't  lose  my  temper,  Antonia.  I  put  it  into  my  buttonhole, 
and  said  very  calmly,  '  Thank  you  —  that's  the  second  present 
I've  had  today,'  and  turning  back  the  coat  lapel  on  the  other 
side,  I  showed  him  my  V.C.  where  the  King  had  pinned  it. 
Then  all  the  geese  rose  on  their  hind  legs  and  cheered " 

Deb's  childish  peals  of  laughter  broke  oflf  his  narration.  Till 
the  last  episode  recounted,  she  had  been  in  bewilderment  try- 
ing to  sift  fantasy  from  fact;  with  such  vivid  conviction  did 
the  speaker  present  each  succeeding  picture:  the  smiling  horse, 
the  mayor  bending  for  the  feather,  the  proud  young  V.C.  .  .  . 
but  that  incident  at  least  might  quite  well  be  true 

"^re  you  a  V.C?" 

He  gave  her  rather  a  queer  look  from  his  candid  forget-me- 


116  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

not  blue  eyes.  And  he  put  down  his  cup  and  walked  sharply 
to  the  window,  and  remarked  in  a  very  matter-of-fact  tone: 
"  No.  I've  been  medically  rejected  for  the  Army.  You  see, 
I've  only  been  given  another  year  to  live,  and  I  suppose  they 
thought  it  a  pity  to  reduce  the  allowance." 

"  Never  mind,  ClifFe,"  said  Antonia  gently  —  and  Deb,  the 
tears  choking  in  her  throat,  waited  for  the  message  of  divine 
womanly  consolation  that  was  doubtless  on  its  way  — "  A  well- 
meaning  man  can  tell  an  enormous  quantity  of  lies  even  in 
one  year.  Don't  give  up.  Look  at  him  well,  Deb  —  he  has 
a  wrinkle  in  his  face  for  every  lie  his  lips  have  spoken." 

The  man  turned  round  to  give  the  entire  benefit  of  his  long 
face,  webbed  and  wrinkled  by  a  thousand  evidences  of  inac- 
curate statement.     Sombrely  he  looked  at  Deb: 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  how  I  was  cured  of  my  habit  of  lying,  in 
spite  of  Antonia?  Yes,  cured,  by  God,  and  by  pretty  drastic 
means.  .  .  ."  He  bent  his  chin  on  to  his  hands.  Deb  knew 
instinctively  that  on  this  one  occasion,  if  never  again,  out  of  a 
fever  of  imaginative  falsehood  was  emerging  a  simple  and 
rather  poignant  piece  of  truth 

"Never  mind  the  details,"  he  broke  out  abruptly — "just 
take  it  that  there  was  a  woman,  and  she  loved  me  —  I  never 
knew  how  much.  She  was  responsive  to  my  moods  as  a  field 
of  barley  to  the  wind  —  rustling  to  shadow  and  waving  back 
to  pure  light.  A  field  of  barley,  I  tell  you!  "  he  cried  fiercely, 
striking  the  table  with  his  fist.  ..."  I  was  miserably  de- 
pressed over  something  or  other  —  again  a  detail  —  and  she 
tried  to  laugh  it  off.  That  irritated  me  —  she  wasn't  taking  the 
tragedy  seriously  enough.  My  tragedy !  '  Ring  me  up  tomor- 
row, Cliffe,  between  seven  and  eight,  and  let  me  hear  the 
worst,'  and  again  that  forced  silly  little  laugh.  I  replied  with 
an  inflexion  of  mocking  composure  —  intensely  dramatic: 
'  Very  well,  dear.  If  I  haven't  rung  up  by  five  minutes  to  eight, 
you'll  know  I've  put  a  bullet  through  my  head.'  And  left  it 
at  that." 

He  brooded  a  moment. 

"  I  rang  up  at  two  minutes  past  eight.    And  it  was  she  who 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  117 

had  put  a  bullet  through  her  head.  .  .  .  Couldn't  endure  the 
prospect  of  life  without  me.  Oh,  no,  I  hadn't  waited  delib- 
erately; I  was  merely  rather  rushed,  and  I'd  forgotten  the  terms 
of  my  farewell  the  evening  before.  And  she  had  waited  .  .  . 
at  the  other  end  .  .  .  fifty-five  minutes  of  slow  agony.  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  you  can  understand  it  cured  me  of  the  habit  of  the 
effective  lie." 

The  girls  were  both  silent.  The  light  was  fading  from  the 
studio.  Antonia's  voice  spoke  with  a  quiver  of  laughing  accu- 
sation :  "  ClifFe,  dear,  do  I  spy  another  and  very  recent 
wrinkle?  " 

Deb  cried  in  sharp  distress,  "  Oh,  Antonia  .  .  ."  for  either 
the  other  had  trodden  with  profane  feet  on  sacred  ground,  or 
.  .  .  She  appealed  to  Cliff e.     "  It  was  true?  " 

"  It  depends  what  you  mean  by  true,"  he  replied  with  the 
air  of  a  man  slowly  descending  to  earth  by  parachute.  "  I 
think  that  somewhere  or  other,  and  for  the  reason  I  have  told 
you,  a  woman  must  have  sat  listening  through  fifty-five  moments 
for  the  tinkle  of  a  telephone  bell  to  release  her  —  or  how  could 
I  know  it  all  so  vividly?  They  say  the  human  imagination 
is  incapable  of  conceiving  outside  reality.  That  the  man  was 
not  myself?  —  an  accident.  Or  perhaps  it  was  indeed  myself, 
and  I  have  forgotten  it,  and  in  telling  you  this  as  a  mere  tale 
I'm  calling  truth  itself  a  lie.  .  .  ." 

"  I  must  go,"  said  Deb  politely.     "  Good-bye." 

"  I'll  see  you  home,  wherever  it  is."  Cliffe  lounged  to  his 
feet. 

"  No,  thanks,"  coldly. 

"  But  I  want  to.  You're  angry  with  me.  And  I  must  put 
myself  right " 

"  By  another  lie?  "  A  flame  of  indignation  in  the  grey 
eyes  that  accused  him  of  rousing  her  emotions  by  false  pre- 
tences. Deb  had  been  profoundly  moved  by  the  climax  of  the 
tale. 

Cliffe  argued  good-humouredly:  "  For  goodness'  sake,  why 
all  this  arbitrary  distinction  between  what  I  invent  and  what 
God  invents.     Of  course  I'll  see  you  home." 


118  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"Deb's  stopping  to  supper  with  me,"  Antonia  struck  in. 
"  She 's  dying  to  ask  me  all  about  you,  and  my  account  will  be 
just  as  picturesque  and  much  more  reliable  than  yours." 

"  But,  Antonia,  I  thought  you  were  supping  out  —  with  Gil- 
lian somebody?  " 

"  Mother  said  so.  I  didn't.  I'm  supposed  to  go  to  some 
very  dull  people  and  I've  decided  to  'phone  them  off." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  our  Gillian?  "  Cliffe  asked  of  Deb. 

"  I  don't  know  her." 

"  Don't  know  her  —  but  she's  always  here  or  at  Zoe's." 

"  Who's  Zoe?  " 

Kennedy  turned  excitedly  to  Antonia:  "  I  say,  they  must 
meet,  mustn't  they?  I  believe  she  and  Gillian  would  hit  it  off 
frightfully  well.  And  Zoe's  a  whole  music-hall  entertainment 
in  herself,  though  I  abominate  the  Spanish  Jew  of  a  shoemaker 
she's  walking  out  with  now.  Let's  'phone  to  them  to  come 
round  here  tonight.     And  Winny  too " 

"  This  isn't  a  branch  of  the  Y.W.C.A.,  Cliffe,"  Antonia  tried 
amusedly  to  check  his  exuberant  overflow  of  conviviality.  But 
Cliffe  ran  on. 

"  No  —  let  me  see  —  Zoe  shows  off  best  in  her  own  Palais 
Royale  flat  —  she  needs  all  the  doors  and  cupboards  to  be 
really  at  her  best.  I'll  give  a  tea-party  there  next  Saturday. 
Blair  Stevenson  may  be  up  on  leave,  and  has  asked  me  to  let 
him  meet  that  singer  woman  I  told  him  about,  with  hair  just 
like  mine!  You  must  meet  her  too,  Miss  Marcus  —  you  posi- 
tively must." 

"  You  mean  La  llorraine  —  oh,  I  know  her  well."  Deb  was 
glad  to  have  found  one  name  familiar  among  all  these  patter- 
ing new  names. 

"  Good.  You'll  come  to  the  tea-party?  Antonia  will  bring 
you  —  it's  in  a  street  rather  tricky  to  find.  I'm  keen  on  back- 
ing Zoe  against  La  llorraine  for  sheer  verbal  energy.  Take  the 
field  bar  none.  For  this  evening  we'll  just  have  Gillian  and 
Winifred  and  Theo.  Shall  I  'phone  them,  Antonia,  or  will 
you?  " 

"  You  can,*'  said  Antonia.     "  No  —  bother !     Gillian  is  away 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  119 

till  Tuesday,  and  Winny  without  her  sends  me  to  sleep.  And 
Theo  Pandos  is  a  bounder  —  Deb  wouldn't  care  about  him." 

"  That  brings  the  party  down  to  the  present  three.  At  least, 
I  suppose  I  can  stop  to  supper,  Antonia,  as  you're  not  going  out 
after  all?     You  haven't  invited  me  yet." 

"  Of  course  you  can.  Don't  you  know  that  a  studio  girl 
always  keeps  a  stray  tin  of  sardines  in  the  cupboard?  " 

'^And  a  black  and  emerald  cushion  on  the  divan.  Curse  it, 
what  I've  had  to  suffer  dodging  the  lure  of  the  generic  studio 
cushion.  But  yours  is  hardly  the  generic  studio,  Antonia. 
You  actually  use  it  for  the  quaint  and  unusual  purpose  of 
painting  pictures  in  it.  The  girl  of  nowadays  rents  a  studio 
to  picnic  in  by  moonlight,  or  because  it  has  such  a  ducksome 
musician's  gallery  to  sleep  in,  or  a  parquet  floor  for  fox-trot- 
ting, or  an  acoustic.  Have  you  a  studio.  Miss  Marcus?  Ex- 
cuse me  not  calling  you  by  your  Christian  name  for  a  few 
weeks,  but  the  whimsical  Bohemian  vagabond,  a  species  whom 
I  abhor,  always  uses  Christian  names  within  three  minutes  of 
introduction." 

"  Or  else  a  charming  invented  name,"  Deb  supplemented. 
"  I'll  call  you  '  Big-Brother-Man '  and  you  shall  call  me  '  All- 
Alone-Girl." 

"  Or  you  call  me  '  Daddy  Longlegs '  and  I'll  call  you  '  Peg 
o'  my  Heart.'  " 

"May  I?  Oh,  may  I  really?  And  will  you?  Will  you 
really?  " 

"Antonia,  I'm  rather  taken  with  this  new  person.  Where 
did  you  pick  her  up?  " 

"  In  a  boarding-house.  Go  on  appreciating  her,  while  I 
'phone  up  my  hostess  for  this  evening  and  tell  her  I  have  tooth- 
ache." Antonia  ran  up  the  two  steps  to  the  door  which  led 
to  the  house;  and  stood  an  instant  poised  on  the  topmost,  sur- 
veying Deb  and  Cliffe  with  a  provocative  smile:  "  It  makes 
me  so  happy  to  think  that  the  two  beings  whom  I  love  most  on 
earth  may  also  grow  to  love  each  other.  .  .  ." 

She  vanished.  And  Cliffe  murmured:  "And  she  doesn't 
care  a  snap  of  the  fingers  for  either  of  us." 


120  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"No.  More  than  any  one  else  I've  met,  Antonia  is  abso- 
lutely sufficient  unto  herself." 

"  Yet  one  can't  leave  her  alone.  She's  always  the  indifferent 
centre  of  a  swarm  of  nibblers.  What's  the  attraction,  I  won- 
der." 

"  Have  you  ever  caressed  a  crystal  or  a  lump  of  jade,  or 
an  ornament  in  soapstone,  something  with  a  surface  perfectly 
smooth  and  cool  —  something  hard  and  cut  and  clear,  without 
fuss  or  anything  except  its  own  polish  and  beauty?  .  .  .  that's 
the  beauty  of  Antonia,  and  her  fascination." 

"  An  exquisite  statuette  in  green  bronze,  standing  high  up  on 
the  mantelpiece.     Psyche  with  the  lamp." 

"Artemis.     Psyche  is  too  human  —  too  curious." 

"  More  in  your  line  —  eh?  " 

Deb  shook  her  head.  And  on  pretext  of  needing  to  do  her 
hair  afresh  for  supper,  she  followed  Antonia  into  the  house. 
She  required  to  snatch  some  general  information  from  Antonia 
about  this  long,  thin  beaky-nosed  Cliffe  Kennedy,  with  the 
sunny,  forget-me-not  blue  eyes,  and  outrageously  nimble 
tongue,  before  she  presented  him  with  the  confidences  for  which 
he  was  angling.  As  she  emerged  from  the  garden  passage  into 
the  hall,  she  heard  Antonia  speaking  in  that  peculiarly  distinct 
voice  one  reserves  for  the  telephone:  "No,  I  want  Gillian  — 
Oh,  isn't  she?  — Well,  listen,  Winny  —  Say  I  simply  must  go 
out  tonight.  I  muddled  the  days  —  I  expect  her  tomorrow 
night  instead.  .  .  ." 

Deb  walked  slowly  through  the  hall  and  up  the  stairs.  She 
was  puzzled.  .  .  . 

Antonia  had  not  seen  her.  A  moment  later  she  came  into 
the  bedroom. 

"  Oh,  was  Cliffe  too  much  for  you?  " 

"You  said  you  would  tell  me  about  him." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Antonia  obligingly,  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed  and  clasping  her  hands  round  her  knees.  "  He's  a 
rich  subject  —  Cliffe  Kennedy,  aged  twenty-nine  —  only  son  of 
a  perfectly  sweet  old  mother.  He's  a  completely  harmless- 
uncle  type,  from  the  sex  point  of  view;  and  also  the  most  dan- 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  121 

gerous  and  mischievous  person  that  ever  walked  this  earth,  be- 
cause he  attracts  all  confidences  and  secrets,  and  then  betrays 
them  lavishly  as  the  freakish  impulse  takes  him." 

"  But  forewarned " 

"  Is  not  forearmed  —  with  Cliffe.  He  has  a  magnetic  and 
fatal  lure,  that  draws  and  draws  you.  .  .  .  You  seek  comfort 
each  time  by  an  instinctive  self-assurance  that  just  this  once 
and  only  this  once  Cliffe  is  to  be  trusted;  and  when  he  is  relat- 
ing one  of  his  best  impromptus,  your  instinct  equally  assures 
you  that  just  this  once  and  only  this  once  Cliffe  is  telling  the 
truth.  Yes,  you  needn't  flush  quite  so  hotly.  Deb;  which  one 
was  it  you  believed?  The  episode  which  cured  him  of  lying? 
Why,  he  lies  by  mechanism.  He  keeps  a  sort  of  stock-pot,  into 
which  he  throws  the  bare  bones  of  every  dramatic  incident 
which  takes  his  fancy,  and  fishes  it  up  again  meated  with  per- 
sonal application.  He's  everybody's  best  friend  and  every- 
body's worst  enemy  in  succession,  and  gyrates  from  one  extreme 
to  the  other  so  quickly  that  you  may  be  unburdening  your  in- 
most heart  to  him  under  an  entirely  false  impression  that  you 
are  still  on  the  friendly  category.  There's  the  gong,  Deb. 
Any  more  questions,  before  the  Court  rises?  " 

"  Why  isn't  your  best  boy  in  khaki?  "  laughed  Deb. 

"He  has  been  medically  rejected.  That  bit  of  information 
happened  to  be  correct.  It's  those  dotted  fragments  of  truth 
which  make  the  whole  so  perilous.  It  can't  be  altogether  dis- 
carded." 

"  And  has  he  really  only  a  year  to  live?     Oh,  Antonia " 

"  Bless  your  tears  of  sympathy,  little  girl.  Cliffe  will  prob- 
ably be  a  hale  old  man  of  eighty.     Come  along.  .  .  ." 


Mrs.  Verity  detained  Deb  after  supper  on  some  pretext,  while 
Cliffe  and  Antonia  returned  to  the  studio.  In  any  normal 
mother,  this  piece  of  manoeuvring  could  easily  be  interpreted 
as  a  wish  to  further  a  favourable  "  match  "  for  Antonia ;  and 
Mrs.  Verity's  intentions  were  similar  and  yet  startlingly  dis- 
similar; she  was  benignly  hopeful  that  a  free  union  with  that 


122  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

charming  Mr.  Kennedy  would  be  that  step  in  the  wrong  direc- 
tion, which  she  so  earnestly  desired  for  Antonia's  good. 

"Antonia  is  the  sweetest  of  companions,  and  also  deserves 
my  supreme  respect  as  an  artist,"  she  told  Deb.  "  But  some- 
times. Miss  Marcus,  and  oh,  I  trust  indeed  that  I  may  be  mis- 
taken, sometimes  she  strikes  me  as  being  just  a  trifle  narrow- 
minded.  She  seems  too  content  to  accept  those  illogical  con- 
ventions which  have  been  fetishes  since  countless  years.  It 
would  grieve  me  inexpressibly  if  Antonia  should  miss  some  of 
the  Fulness  of  life.  Do  you  not  agree  with  me.  Miss  Marcus, 
and  pray,  if  you  do  not  agree,  do  not  hesitate  to  contradict  me 
—  do  not  hesitate  to  call  me  unreasonable,  but  do  you  not 
think  " —  mittened  hands  fervently  clasped  in  her  lap  — "  that 
it  is  Antonia's  duty  to  the  Age  to  be  a  little  more  abandoned  in 
her  conduct?  " 

If  one  could  judge  by  Kennedy's  conversation  during  the 
rest  of  the  evening,  Antonia's  friends  at  least  were  certainly 
not  to  be  complained  of  in  that  respect.  Cliffe  slaughtered 
their  presimiable  confidences  with  as  little  ruth  as  a  butcher 
slaughters  lambs,  and  then  disported  himself  merrily  among  the 
mangled  heaps.  A  certain  Theo  Pandos,  after  completely 
maiming  the  glorious  genius  of  Gillian  Sherwood,  was  flirting 
shamefully  with  "  Winifred,"  who,  it  seemed,  was  found  in  dire 
need  by  Gillian  on  her  doorstep,  and  taken  in  and  clothed  and 
fed.  "  And  I  tell  you,  Antonia,  and  this  is  Gospel  truth,  that 
sticky,  white-slug  girl  has  done  the  doorstep  trick  before.  .  .  . 
Blair  Stevenson  knows  a  man  who  swears  for  a  fact  he  met  her 
at  Tom  Maryon's,  the  dramatist,  three  years  ago,  under  the 
very  same  conditions.  He  made  Blair  take  his  oath  never  to 
breathe  one  word  about  it,  for  fear  of  making  mischief.  One 
doorstep?  —  she's  lain  on  twenty-seven  doorsteps." 

From  "  Winifred,"  Cliffe  went  on  to  "  Zoe  "  and  "  Blair," 
and  was  equally  startling  in  his  revelations.  There  was  noth- 
ing of  vindictive  or  paltry  gossip  in  Clifi'e's  stupendous  on- 
slaughts upon  the  truth.  He  committed  mortality  on  lines 
that  waxed  from  merely  generous  to  colossal,  breath-taking. 
He  flung  about  reputations  and  caught  them,  as  deftly  as  a 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  123 

juggler  his  plates;  or  dropped  them  with  magnificent  disre- 
gard of  the  smash.  Treachery  was  here  conducted  on  as  opu- 
lent a  scale  of  grandeur  as  falsehood.  Coincidence  was  blown 
out  to  a  lusty,  full-bellied  creature  triumphant  over  those  mea- 
gre, lean-throated  sisters  of  accuracy  and  consistency.  No  hu- 
man being  could  have  survived  one  day  of  life  under  such  a 
stress  of  superlative  achievement,  such  haphazard  of  occur- 
rence, such  complicated  interplay  of  motives,  actions,  and  re- 
actions. 

Antonia  did  not  interrupt  Mr.  ClifFe  Kennedy's  entertain- 
ment. It  was  a  very  fine  one-man  performance,  and  lasted  un- 
til eleven  o'clock.  Then  he  relapsed  into  moody  depression, 
and  said  he  would  go  mad  unless  he  could  be  solitary  .  .  . 
but  would  kindly  see  Deb  home  first,  if  she  promised  not  to 
talk. 

And  he  hovered  a  moment  on  tip-toe,  taller  even  than  nature 
had  made  him,  looking  down  at  Antonia  with  a  wry  smile; 
where  she  lay  dreamily  back  in  her  chair,  with  hands  clasped 
behind  the  beautiful,  delicate  shape  of  her  head.  Then  he 
bent,  and  took  that  head  between  his  long,  thin,  brown  fingers, 
as  though  she  were  a  holy  saint,  and  reverently  touched  her 
forehead  with  his  lips,  and  put  her  from  him,  and  swimg  out 
of  the  studio. 

Deb  understood  that  it  was  a  kiss  of  renunciation.  And 
that  his  passion  for  Antonia  was  very  real  and  very  hope- 
less. .  .  . 

Did  Antonia  know  of  it? 

Antonia  telephoned  early  the  next  morning  to  make  amused 
enquiry  how  much  of  her  inmost  soul  Deb  had  been  lured  to 
commit  to  Kennedy's  precarious  keeping  during  the  homeward 
walk. 

Deb  faltered  an  evasive  reply,  ashamed  to  confess  that  she 
had  inexplicably  delivered  up  to  this  persuasive  highwayman 
of  secrets  the  complete  comedy  and  tragedy  of  the  Chorus. 

"  Did  he  say  anything  about  me?  "  Antonia  questioned  her 
further. 


124  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

Again  Deb  faltered  an  evasive  reply  .  .  .  whilst  in  her  eeirs 
rang  a  guilty  echo  of  Cliffe's  peroration  to  the  bizarre  history 
of  Charlotte  Verity's  bold  infatuation  for  a  now  defunct  Arctic 
explorer  who  was  Cliffe's  own  father  ("  twenty-nine  years  ago. 
And  all  this  time  neither  she  nor  I  have  dared  to  tell  Antonia 
that  she's  my  own  half-sister  and  a  child  of  love"  .  .  .). 

"  No,  nothing,  Antonia." 

"  What  did  he  talk  about,  then?  Well  ^  whom  did  he  talk 
about?  " 

"  His  m-mother." 

"  Deb,  I  can  positively  hear  you  squirming.  Own  up.  Why 
are  you  shielding  him?  " 

"  I'm  not,"  protested  Deb  unhappily. 

Antonia  let  her  ofi".     "  What  are  you  doing  today?  " 

"  I  think  I'll  go  to  Hampstead  and  ask  myself  to  tea  with 
the  Rothenburgs  —  the  Redburys,  I  mean.  Nell  was  the  kiddy 
I  introduced  to  you  last  week;  you  liked  her,  didn't  you?  " 

"Yes — I've  just  rung  her  up  to  invite  her  to  the  show  of 
etchings  at  the  Leicester  Galleries." 

"  Never  mind.     I  can  see  her  another  time." 

"  Sure  you  don't  mind?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.  Any  message  for  La  llorraine?  I'll  pay  them 
a  visit  this  afternoon,  instead  of  the  Redburys." 

"Will  you?  Then  I  shall  probably  come  on  there  after 
the  show  —  if  you  don't  object." 

"  Why  should  I  object?     I'm  very  happy  in  your  company." 

"  I  accept  your  act  of  homage,"  serenely. 

"  'Tisn't  anything  of  the  sort,"  Deb  repudiated  the  suggestion 
with  extreme  indignation. 

"  Very  well,  dear.  Ask  your  Aunt  Stella  if  she'll  lunch  with 
me  tomorrow." 

"Me  too?" 

*'  The  perfect  hostess  never  mixes  her  generations." 

"  That's  an  excuse  not  to  give  me  lunch." 

"  You  may  come  to  supper  the  day  after,  if  you  bring  your 
brother,  as  you  once  promised." 

"And  my  grandfather?  " 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  125 

"  The  old  Hun?  Certainly.  I  prefer  him  to  the  oh-so-Eng- 
lish  Mr.  Otto  Redbury,  anyway." 

"  Does  the  oh-so-English  Herr  Otto  Rothenburg  go  and  sit 
in  the  bathroom  and  sulk  when  you  are  there?  because  it  hon- 
ours you  too  highly  if  he  appears,  and  you  might  get  conceited 
about  it." 

"  On  the  contrary,  he  entertains  me  with  his  most  irreproach- 
able Jingo  sentiments  —  rather  loudly,  in  case  a  policeman  is 
posted  outside  the  door." 

"  An  old  lady  has  been  posted  outside  this  door  for  a  good 
twenty  minutes,  waiting  to  wash  her  hands.     Shall  I  let  her 


m 


9  " 


"  I  don't  quite  follow." 

"The  'phone  and  the  wash-basin  live  together  at  Montagu 
Hall.     Good-bye,  Antonia  —  do  you  like  me?  " 
"  Moderately.     Good-bye,  child." 


CHAPTER   II 


THE  Redburys  were  at  Saturday  dinner.  Their  numbers 
indicated  a  party,  but  in  reality  no  one  but  the  intimate 
family  was  present.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Redbury,  their  sons 
Hardy  emd  David;  Hardy's  wife  Beatrice,  and  her  brother 
Sampson  Phillips;  the  two  daughters  of  the  house,  Hedda  and 
Nell;  and  Miss  Swinley,  the  strictly  English  governess.  Four 
members  were  missing  from  the  company:  Con,  the  eldest 
Redbury,  since  several  months  at  the  Front;  Wilhelmina,  the 
infant  child  of  Hardy  and  Beatrice,  who  had  annoyed  her 
grandfather  and  been  banished  to  the  nursery;  Hedda's  hus- 
band, Gustav  Furth,  interned  in  England  for  being  a  German; 
and  Max,  the  boy  who  came  between  Hardy  and  David,  interned 
in  Germany  for  being  an  Englishman. 

The  international  situation  round  the  table  was  one  of  ex- 
tremes! delicacy.  Otto  Rothenburg  had  settled  in  England  for 
business  purposes,  and  was  naturalized  directly  after  his  mar- 
riage with  Trudchen  Wagner.  But  he  made  no  secret  of  his 
dislike  of  the  English,  and  his  contempt  of  the  semi-English; 
and  had  always  petulantly  insisted  that  his  household  should  be 
conducted  on  sound  and  hearty  Teuton  principles,  of  which  the 
main  points  were  a  diet  of  rich  sufficiency  for  the  elders,  and 
no  nonsense  and  no  discrimination  for  the  tribe  of  children. 
Though  the  quantity  of  these  —  six  alive  and  two  dead  —  indi- 
cated that  he  did  not  confine  his  German  ideas  wholly  to  the 
table.  Each  of  the  six  played  a  chosen  musical  instrument  — 
chosen  by  Herr  Rothenburg  himself,  be  it  remarked.  The  two 
girls  had  frequently  been  burdened  by  plaid  frocks;  German 
was  the  language  spoken  as  a  matter  of  course  at  meals;  filial 
obedience  and  tlie  good-night  kiss  were  insisted  upon ;  and  there 

126 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  127 

was  a  frequent  coming  and  going  of  relatives  scattered  over 
Germany  and  Austria,  with  large  gay  packets  of  gingerbread 
tied  up  in  silver  paper;  or  of  polite  unknowns  bearing  letters 
of  introduction  from  the  Rothenburg  relatives  abroad;  and  very 
eager  to  be  invited  to  a  meal. 

When  Hedvig,  at  eighteen,  was  wedded  to  a  German,  her 
father  was  delighted.  Hedvig  herself  had  never  been  consulted 
on  the  match.  When  Gerhardt,  at  twenty-four,  had  displayed 
unexpected  initiative  and  engaged  himself  to  Beatrice  Phillips, 
Rothenburg  fretted  and  objected  and  sulked,  and  locked  him- 
self in  the  bathroom,  and  came  out  again  when  it  was  least 
desirable  that  he  should  do  so;  and  during  a  full  six  months 
rendered  the  lives  of  all  about  him  wholly  unbearable.  He 
was  finally  only  reconciled  to  the  bride's  English  birth  and 
parentage  by  her  large  settlements.  Max,  two  years  younger 
than  Gerhardt,  was,  however,  immediately  despatched  out  of 
danger  to  his  Uncle  Karl  in  Hanover,  there  to  learn  the  busi- 
ness and  eventually  to  marry  his  Uncle  Karl's  daughter  Klara. 
Konrad's  enthusiasm  for  territorial  drill  —  well,  with  a  stretch 
of  the  imagination,  that  could  be  ascribed  to  his  German  blood 
revealing  itself  in  a  wistful  passion  for  the  obligatory  military 
service  which  could  never  be  his;  therefore,  Konrad,  who  of 
all  the  brood  was  his  mother's  darling,  was  grudgingly  per- 
mitted to  remain  in  London  and  read  for  the  Bar.  David,  sent 
to  a  day-school,  was  destined  later  for  Heidelberg  University, 
as  a  corrective  to  any  ultra-English  notions  which  St.  Cris- 
pin's may  have  put  into  his  head. 

And  then  had  occurred  this  most  inconvenient  war. 

Herr  Otto  Rothenburg  did  not  wait  to  be  subtle  about  his 
change  of  front.  Immediately  he  scuttled  for  cover.  He  be- 
came in  name,  in  sentiment  and  in  habit  what  he  already  was 
by  law  —  a  fine  old  English  gentleman.  His  household  was 
revolutionized ;  he  turned  livid  at  the  sound  of  a  single  German 
word  spoken;  he  clung  to  such  English  acquaintances  as  were 
his,  with  a  limpet-like  fervour  of  affection  which  no  coldness 
could  disconcert.  He  forbade  all  communication  with  rela- 
tives abroad ;  and  all  mention  of  them.     In  short,  Mr.  Otto  Red- 


128  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

bury  was  afraid.  To  their  mother's  utter  bewilderment,  Hed- 
vig,  Lenchen,  Konrad  and  Gerhardt  were  metamorphosed  to 
Hedda,  Nell,  Con  and  Hardy.  His  fever  reached  its  zenith 
when  Gustav  Furth,  an  unnaturalized  German  of  military  age, 
was  arrested  and  interned.  And  his  daughter  Hedda,  penni- 
less and  unprotected,  but  in  the  highest  spirits,  returned  to  the 
parental  roof,  with  the  obvious  and  natural  intention  of  re- 
maining where  she  was  for  the  duration  of  the  war.  Once 
supremely  her  father's  good  girl,  Hedda  was  not  at  all  popular 
in  this  crisis.  It  was  difficult  airily  to  disavow  all  enemy  con- 
nection, with  concerned  enquiries  emanating  from  all  quarters 
as  to  Furth's  whereabouts  and  treatment.  Supposing,  too,  that 
when  she  came  to  the  house,  Beatrice  should  be  offended  at 
Hedda's  presence  there  .  .  .  Beatrice,  that  never-to-be-suffi- 
ciently  appreciated  link  with  solid  British  stock! 

Beyond  a  little  astonished  realization  at  finding  herself  en- 
circled by  alien  enemies  —  her  attitude  conveyed  that  she  had 
never  noticed  before  that  the  Rothenburgs  were  German  — 
Beatrice  had  a  nature  too  well-bred  and  womanly  —  gentle- 
womanly,  David  was  wont  to  call  it  —  to  have  expressed  as  yet 
any  sort  of  resentment.  She  was  very  nice  and  tactful  to  Hedda 
about  "  poor  Gustav."  It  was  a  miracle  that  Hardy  could  have 
been  sensible  and  far-seeing  enough  as  to  have  married  so  suc- 
cessfully. Mr.  Redbury  propitiated  her  with  a  determination 
and  unction  that  —  again  to  quote  David  — "  fair  gives  one  the 
sicks."     But  then  Mr.  Redbury  was  desperately  afraid. 

"  Bodadoes,  Beatty,  mein  Schatz?  "  enquired  Mrs.  Redbury, 
dumpy  and  apple-cheeked  and  very  harassed  by  her  husband's 
perpetual  amendment  of  her  accent,  and  by  the  awful  trinity  of 
Briton's  representatives  present  in  the  dining-room. 

And  Beatrice  blushed  faintly  and  glanced  apologetically  at 
her  brother  Samson,  who  looked  as  wooden  as  though  a  toast 
of  the  King  had  just  been  proposed.  Miss  Swinley  coughed,  a 
delicate  and  pensive  cough ;  something  had  annoyed  Miss  Swin- 
ley that  morning,  and  she  was  ripe  for  revenge. 

"  I  met  a  vellow  in  de  Zity  dis  morning,"  said  Mr.  Redbury, 
glaring  at  his  wife,  "  who  vould  by  no  means  pelieve  dat  I  vos 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  129 

bartly  a  voreigner,  'Vot  —  you?  —  go  on!  all  dese  years  I 
dake  you  for  a  bure-plooded  Priton!  '  He  roared  with  laugh- 
ter ven  I  told  him  my  selige  father  was  porn  in  Amsterdam. 
He  vouldn't  pelieve  me.  '  Your  vife,'  he  said,  '  she  speaks  wiz 
a  slight  aggsent.     But  you  are  von  of  us,  Redbury,  old  man.' 

He  couldnt  pelieve  me "  himself  roaring  with  laughter 

but  still  glaring  at  Trudchen. 

"  And  when  I  told  him  how  beautiful  you  were,"  sang  Hedda 
—  David  kicked  her  to  shut  up.  He  could  not  bear  it  when 
the  old  man  made  an  ass  of  himself. 

"  He  wouldn't  believe  me  .  .  ."  Hedda  chirrupped  irrepress- 
ibly.  The  world  bereft  of  Gustav  was  so  full  of  radiant  possi- 
bilities that  she  could  not  refrain  from  bursting  out.  For  her, 
at  least,  the  war  was  not  entirely  an  evil  thing. 

Mr.  Redbury  spoke  quite  correct  English,  but  his  accent  was 
not  so  irreproachable  as  to  justify  the  complete  good  faith  of 
the  "  vellow  in  the  Zity."  And  that  "  selige  "  had  slipped  in 
by  mistake;  and  would  prevent  him  from  being  quite  so  pri- 
vately nasty  to  his  wife  about  "  mein  Schatz  "  as  he  had  antici- 
pated. 

A  joint  appeared  on  the  table  simultaneously  with  the  post. 
One  letter  bearing  the  "  opened  by  Censor  "  label,  black  letters 
on  white  pasted  across  the  slit  of  the  envelope,  was  handed  by 
the  servant  to  Mrs.  Redbury. 

"Ach  Gott!  von  der  liebsten  besten  Anna!  "  as  a  second 
letter  was  revealed  under  cover  of  the  first. 

Mr.  Redbury  hissed  out  a  venomous  "  Put  it  away !  "  which 
his  wife,  fumbling  and  tearful  over  this  communication  from 
her  beloved  elder  sister  in  Berlin,  neither  heard  nor  heeded. 
Mr.  Redbury  dared  not  insist,  in  front  of  Rhoda,  the  parlour- 
maid—  not  to  mention  Beatrice,  Samson  Phillips  and  Miss 
Swinley.  Besides,  though  his  sway  might  be  peevishly  un- 
pleasant, it  never  exacted  the  awed  obedience  yielded  to  a  true 
despot.  He  quivered  with  horror  at  the  present  predicament, 
as  it  dawned  upon  him  that  his  wife  intended  to  read  aloud 
the  letter  from  Germany,  in  little  bursts  and  snatches  of  joy. 
David  was  encouraging  her  by  eager  questions  —  that  boy  had 


130  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

no  sense  whatever.  Mr.  Redbury  began  to  talk  very  loud  and 
fast. 

"  It  makes  me  proud  to  see  all  the  ghagi  round  my  table  " 
—  he  looked  unutterable  compliments  at  Samson  Phillips'  cap- 
tain's uniform,  then  possessively  at  Hardy,  who  was  short- 
sighted and  had  only  been  admitted  to  Home  Service;  and  at 
David,  a  public-school  cadet.  "  If  only  Con  vere  here,  to  gom- 
blete  our  number;  did  I  tell  you.  Captain  Villips,  zat  my  eldest 
boy  has  been  mentioned  in  disbatches  for  hotting  four  Huns  wiz 
his  own  rifle?  " 

"Glad  to  hear  Con  has  a  sense  of  property!  "  muttered 
David. 

"Ei,  die  Arme!  "  cried  Mrs.  Redbury,  weeping.  "Franz 
has  been  shot.  You  remember  little  Franz,  Otto?  Ach  ver- 
zeihen  Sie  —  forgive  me,  Captain  Villips.  Such  a  dear  little 
boy,  my  sister's  youngest.  He  stayed  with  us  for  a  whole  year, 
and  learnt  his  lessons  wiz  Nell." 

Vindictively  Mr.  Redbury  carved  all  the  gristle  for  Hedda, 
who  had  a  German  husband.  It  was  a  vent  to  his  feelings. 
He  showed  a  nice  discrimination  in  reserving  the  juiciest  bits 
for  Beatrice;  Miss  Swinley,  he  judged  correctly,  was  past  all 
such  caressing  treatment;  one  could  safely  anticipate  her 
month's  notice  the  very  next  morning.  Not  that  she  was  really 
necessary  any  longer  to  superintend  Nell's  studies.  Nell  was 
seventeen,  and  in  the  ordinary  course  of  events,  would  have 
been  "  out "  next  year.  But  Miss  Swinley  would  spread  a  re- 
port that  her  principles  would  not  permit  her  to  remain  in  a 
household  so  pronouncedly  pro-German.  ...  To  Mr.  Red- 
bury's  jaundiced  fancy,  the  tread  of  the  policeman  sounded 
nearer.  And  he  was  never  far  away  —  that  mythical  police- 
man. 

"  Oh,  Mother,  is  there  anything  about  Max?  "  asked  Nell, 
her  dark  liquid  eyes  wistful  with  anxiety  for  her  favourite 
brother. 

Mrs.  Redbury  fluttered  the  thin  foreign  pages,  crossed  with 
pointed  scribble.  "  But  yes  —  Max  is  well  as  can  be  hoped, 
and  his  Uncle  Karl  makes  enquiries  that  he  is  gomfortable. 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  131 

That  good  Karl !  And  —  ach,  unglaublich !  —  his  own 
nephew,  Otto  Salinger,  is  in  a  gonfinement  camp  over  here,  and 
Karl  asks  if  we,  in  return,  vill  find  him  out  and  be  nice  to  him? 
But  yes,  indeed;  perhaps  ze  poor  young  man  vould  like  some 
of  my  Dampfnudeln;  he  vill  surely  be  homesick.  Otto,  do  you 
hear?" 

Miss  Swinley  repeated  her  pensive  cough.  And  Mr.  Red- 
bury,  wrathfully  ignoring  the  question  of  his  unfortunate  name- 
sake, addressed  himself  again  to  Captain  Phillips. 

"  Ven  do  you  think  we  shall  knock  them  out  definitely?  " 
His  loud  tones  drowning  Trudchen's  agitated  twitter.  "  I 
have  had  a  tip  to  lay  in  yards  and  yards  and  yards  of  punting." 

Samson  Phillips'  handsome,  heavy  features  expressed  be- 
wilderment. 

"Punting?" 

"Rather  overdone  the  bunting  today,  haven't  you,  father?" 
David  suggested  impertinently.  It  was  flag-day  for  one  of  the 
minor  Balkan  states,  and  Mr.  Redbury  wore  his  expensive 
trophies  duplicated  and  tripled,  with  the  air  of  a  General  be- 
spattered with  honourable  medals. 

Mr.  Redbury  told  an  acedote  of  the  titled  lady  who  had  dec- 
orated him.     And  then  Beatrice  asked: 

"Do  you  really  think  we  shall  win  the  war  so  soon?  It's 
almost  too  good  to  be  true,  isn't  it?  "  her  pleasant,  well-bred 
English  voice  was  a  relief  after  so  much  duologue  from  her 
parents-in-law.  "  But  I  don't  think  it's  very  nice  of  the  Ger- 
mans to  use  liquid  fire,  do  you?  " 

Hardy  beamed  at  her  fondly  through  his  glasses.  "  Not 
very  nice  of  them,  no.  Not  drawing-room  manners,  is  it, 
darling?  "  He  was  a  man  of  quaint  appearance,  a  startlingly 
fair  replica  of  Nell  and  David,  who  had  the  dark  melancholy 
eyes,  aquiline  cast  of  feature,  and  sensitive  lips  that  stamped 
them  true  Hebrew.  But  Hardy,  with  his  light  eyes,  light  hair, 
light  skin,  and  enormous  nose,  gave  somewhat  the  impression 
of  a  Jew  who  had  been  well  bleached.  Hedda's  colouring  lay 
between  the  two  extremes.  Con  enjoyed  the  good  looks  of  the 
family;  blue  eyes  always  afire  with  mirth;  tall,  athletic  figure; 


132  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

incarnate  good-nature  and  high  spirits,  he  was  adored  by  his 
men,  and  well-liked  by  his  superior  ofi&cers.  As  for  his  mother 
—  not  Max  nor  Hardy  nor  David,  nor  Hedda  nor  Nell,  could 
in  sum  equal  her  love  for  this  miracle  of  an  eldest-born,  now 
in  the  trenches. 

"  Are  you  laughing  at  me?  "  Beatrice  remained  quite  serene. 
"Yes,  please;  I  will  have  some  cream." 

"  Die  Anna  writes  zat  zere  is  only  a  wee-little  milk  for 
each  child  in  Berlin;  not  enough  to  keep  zem  alive,  she  say." 

"Let  zem  die!  "  cried  Mr.  Redbury,  with  a  ferocity  that  was 
really  foreign  to  his  nature  —  only  he  was  afraid.  "All  the 
better.  Let  zem  all  die.  Zey  only  grow  up  to  be  Cherman  sol- 
diers fighting  against  humanity." 

Nell  flashed  out:  "Oh,  father,  how  can  you?  —  little  soft 
babies "  and  suddenly  plunged  back  into  silence,  marvel- 
ling at  her  own  temerity. 

David  as  usual  supported  her  in  rebellion.  "  Not  all  Ger- 
man babies  grow  up  to  be  German  soldiers.  Some  grow  up  to 
be  English  soldiers  "...  his  ironic  downward  glance  at  his 
own  uniform  emphasized  the  remark. 

"  If  Con  were  here,  young  'un,  he'd  lick  you  for  that,"  and 
Hardy  sent  a  message  of  strong  disapproval  over  his  glasses 
at  his  cadet  brother. 

"  Con's  different.  However  keen  he  may  be  on  his  regiment 
and  England  and  all  that,  he  never  talks  fatuous  drivel  about 
wanting  all  the  German  babies  to  die." 

"  Vatuous  trivel  .  .  ."  shouted  Mr.  Redbury. 

"  Dear  me,"  murmured  Miss  Swinley. 

"  I'm  sure  David  doesn't  mean  to  be  rude,  father,"  Beatrice 
put  in  mildly.  "  We  none  of  us  want  babies  to  die,  but  of 
course  it's  nicer  if  it  isn't  English  babies." 

David  laughed.  And  his  father  ordered  him  from  the  table. 
Nell  immediately  slipped  from  her  seat  and  joined  him  at  the 
door. 

"  Ach  Lenchen !  "  sobbed  Mrs.  Redbury.  "  And  you  haf  not 
touched  the  pie  on  your  blate!  " 

"  Gora  back!  "  roared  Mr.  Redbury.     For  there  was  always 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  133 

a  possibility  that  she  might  find  favour  in  the  eyes  of  Samson 
Phillips.  He  had  noticed  with  pleasure  that  a  secret  under- 
standing seemed  to  exist  between  them;  frequently  they  whis- 
pered together.  ..."  My  son-in-law  a  Captain  in  ze  Zap- 
pers !  "  .  .  .  Another  link  with  safety.  One  might  almost  defy 
the  policeman  then. 

n 

The  parlour-maid  accosted  David  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
"Young  Mr.  Marcus  is  in  the  schoolroom,  sir.  He  said  he 
would  wait  for  you  there." 

"  Oh  —  thanks,  Rhoda." 

"  Hullo,  Marcus.  Not  end  of  the  term  yet,  is  it?  Scarlet 
fever  again?  " 

"No.  I've  chucked  Winborough."  Richard  was  lounging 
on  the  shabby  fender-seat,  drumming  with  one  heel  against  the 
side  of  the  fireplace.  He  was  not  lookirg  well;  dark  marks  un- 
der his  eyes  and  a  rather  drawn  expression  round  the  mouth 
caused  David,  who  was  observant,  to  scrutinize  him  with  some 
attention.  He  was  rather  surprised  at  this  visit.  On  the  whole 
Richard  was  not  wont  to  seek  out  his  society  with  overmuch 
enthusiasm.  Richard's  friends  were  mostly  sturdy  athletes  of 
the  Greville  Dunne  order,  who  summed  up  David  as  "  sloppy  " 
because  he  played  the  cello,  and  hated  games. 

"  Chucked  Winborough?  That's  pretty  casual.  What  does 
your  guv'nor  say?  " 

"  Said  I  could  do  as  I  liked  about  it." 

"  Good  Lord !  mine  would  bellow  the  house  down.  He's 
just  slung  me  out  of  the  dining-room  over  some  nonsense  about 
German  and  English  babies." 

David  threw  himself  disconsolately  in  the  battered  old 
armchair.     The  other  boy  glanced  up  with  sudden  interest. 

"What's  your  family's  attitude  towards  the  war?  " 

"  We're  all  at  sixes  and  sevens.  Father's  more  English 
than  the  English;  and  mother  sits  and  worries  in  alternate  lay- 
ers over  Con  and  her  own  people  in  Germany.  Does  not  men- 
tion them,  of  course.     Hardy  is  a  genuine  patriot,  I  believe, 


134  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

without  making  much  row  about  it.  Of  course  being  married 
to  Beatrice  has  influenced  him.  We  hang  the  fact  of  Beatrice 
out  in  the  front  garden  like  the  clean  washing.  .  .  .  Sickening. 
And  all  the  while  there's  Max  interned  over  there  —  and  Gus- 
tavo interned  over  here  —  also  unmentionable  .  .  .  not  that 
Hedda  minds  much.  But  father.  .  .  .  You  should  see  his  face 
when  visitors  enquire  after  '  poor  Mr.  Furth  ' —  and  they  do  it 
as  if  they  were  treading  on  egg-shells.  The  etiquette  of  intern- 
ment is  as  yet  very  precarious.  One  isn't  at  all  sure  if  Gustavo 
is  to  be  exalted  as  a  martyr  or  mysteriously  hushed  up  as 
though  he  were  a  convict  —  I  say,  what's  the  matter?  " 

"  Nothing.     I'm  in  for  it  too,  that's  all." 

"Internment?  You,  Marcus?  I  —  I'm  sorry.  I'd  no 
idea.  .  .  ." 

"All  right.  You  needn't  do  the  egg-shell  trick.  I  was 
born  in  Germany,  and  father  didn't  have  me  naturalized,  that's 
all." 

David  was  silent  a  moment,  thoughtfully  staring  at  his 
boots.     "  Has  he  appealed?  " 

"  Yes.  No  good.  The  Government  has  condoned  too  many 
cases,  and  the  Anti-German  section  are  beginning  to  protest. 
So  they've  had  to  tighten  up  again.  We  've  got  a  let-ofif  from 
deportation  for  grandfather  and  Aunt  Stella.  Can't  expect 
more,  with  all  these  spy  cases  about." 

He  went  on  in  a  very  matter-of-fact  voice:  "  I  couldn't  stick 
Winborough  this  term.  Just  knowing. —  It's  absurd  —  I  was  as 
keen  to  lick  the  Germans  as  ever  —  but  how  could  /  join  in 
when  the  fellows  jawed  about  Huns  and  wiping  'em  off  the  face 
of  the  earth.  ...  I  felt  crimson  inside  —  beastly  —  as  though 
I  were  there  on  false  pretences.  And  all  the  chaps  of  my  age 
were  preparing  to  join  up  next  year  .  .  .  last  term  I  was  still 
one  of  them.  They  couldn't  understand  why.  ...  It  had  to 
come  out  at  last  —  the  Head  knew  all  along,  naturally.  But 
we  were  playing  the  Meltonians  in  their  own  field,  twelve  miles 
away  —  and  I  had  to  register  and  get  permission,  show  my  pho- 
tograph —  all  that  mush.     Like  a  ticket-of -leave  man.     The  fel- 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  135 

lows  were  awfully  decent.  They  didn't  even  cut  me.  Harri- 
son, speaking  for  the  majority,  went  so  far  as  to  say  it  was 
rough  luck,  and  they  knew  I  couldn't  help  it " —  Richard's  un- 
derlip  twisted  sardonically.  "  But  they  weren't  quite  sure, 
after  that,  what  ought  to  be  said  in  front  of  me  .  .  .  dead 
pauses  when  I  strolled  up  to  one  group  or  another.  ...  I 
came  home  at  half-term,  last  Monday,  and  I'm  not  going  back." 

"  So  you're  out  of  it,"-  whispered  David,  still  staring  as 
though  fascinated  at  his  boots.  "  Out  of  the  fighting,  and  the 
need  of  fighting,  and  the  need  to  choose  .  .  .  you  lucky  beggar. 
Oh,  you  lucky  beggar.  .  .  ." 

"  I  realize  the  fact  that  I'm  out  of  it,  thanks.  But  I  don't 
quite  follow  your  congratulations." 

"  It's  that  .  .  .  I've  been  in  Germany,  two  or  three  times, 
once  for  six  months,  and  —  Oh,  Richard,  what  has  happened  to 
the  old  Germany,  the  Germany  we  knew,  to  change  it  so?  I 
simply  cant  realize  that  they  conmiit  atrocities  in  Belgium  and 
sink  hospital  ships  and  mutilate  children,  and  are  bragging  and 
swaggering  and  blood-letting  all  over  Europe.  ...  I  can  only 
remember  the  little  things  —  the  silly,  comfortable  little  things. 
.  .  .  You  follow  the  stream,  and  in  a  clearing  in  the  heart  of 
the  great  blue  pinewood  you  come  bang  on  the  sturdy  old 
forest-house,  with  antlers  branching  over  the  wooden  doorway, 
and  the  coat-of-arms  of  some  royalty  .  .  .  perhaps  you  may 
catch  a  glimpse  of  him  in  his  green  hunting-coat  .  .  .  tables 
with  check  blue  and  red  cloths,  and  saucers  of  wood-strawber- 
ries like  tiny  drops  of  blood  —  do  you  know  the  smell  and 
flavour  of  wood-strawberries?  —  and  a  flaxen  peasant  child 
who  watches  you  with  enormous  solemn  eyes  while  you  eat, 
and  curtseys  by  clockwork  for  hours  after  you've  left  her.  .  .  . 
And  all  over  the  country  the  ridiculous  wooden  signposts  that 
say  on  one  arm  '  Zum  Biergarten,'  and  on  the  other  '  Zum  Aus- 
sichtspunkt,'  and  never  get  tired  of  it  —  and  you  never  get  tired 
of  it  either.  Or  of  leaning  out  of  your  window  in  the  early 
morning  to  hear  them  play  the  Chorale,  slow  and  pure  and 
stately  —  and  the  ground  is  a  mist  of  blue  bilberries  —  emd 


136  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

the  Rhine  legends  jostle  each  other  on  your  excursion,  and  you 
send  oflF  postcards  on  which  everybody  signs  their  names  —  and 
every  one  says  good-day  —  and  every  one  is  musical." 

"  Good  God,  how  awful,"  was  Richard's  sotto  voce  comment 
on  this  list  of  blisses. 

David  heard,  and  said  rather  impatiently :  "  You've  been  to 
Germany,  haven't  you?     Can't  you  understand  what  I  mean?  " 

Richard  ransacked  his  memory  for  a  single  incident  or  aspect 
of  Dorzheim  which  had  found  tender  home  in  his  heart,  and 
discovered  not  one. 

"All  the  little  things  .  .  ."  David  murmured  again,  hands 
clasped  behind  his  head,  and  eyes  mournfully  brooding  on  the 
past.  "  Oh,  I  know  I'm  a  sentimental  idiot,  but  I  can't  shake 
it  all  oflf  to  command.     Not  at  once." 

"  If  you  feel  like  that,  I  don't  honestly  see  why  you  need  join 
up.     'Tisn't  compulsory." 

"  I've  got  to  .  .  .  there'd  be  such  a  fuss  with  father  —  and 
he  would  never  forgive  me.  Max  can't,  and  Hardy's  married. 
.  .  .  There's  only  Con  and  me.  Con  —  well,  you  know  him  — 
he  rings  British  wherever  you  sound  him.  .  .  .  I've  seen  mother 
look  at  him  as  though  wondering  how  he  could  ever  have  hap- 
pened to  be  her  son.  I  don't  want  Con  to  despise  me  —  he's 
always  been  ripping  to  us  younger  ones.  And  then  —  oh, 
just  because  there's  a  doubt  about  us  all,  we  can't  afford,  as  a 
family,  to  have  a  slacker  about.  If  our  name  had  always  been 
Redbury  " —  again  that  melancholy  smile  and  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  so  typically  Jewish. 

"  Have  you  changed  it?  " 

"  Dear  old  man,  you  didn't  commit  the  horrible  error  of 
asking  our  parlour-maid  for  Mr.  David  Rothenburg?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did.  Sorry.  I  believe  Deb  warned  me,  but  I  forgot. 
Does  it  matter?  " 

"  She  may  give  notice  tomorrow  ...  we  live  uncomfortably 
on  a  tight-rope  nowadays,  and  some  of  us  haven't  learnt  how  to 
walk  it  yet.  Poor  mother,  for  instance  —  she's  always  side- 
slipping. Rhoda  is  fairly  new,  and  father  deludes  himself  that 
she  doesn't  know  our  guilty  secret.     I  say,  you  remember  Mis^ 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  137 

Swinley?  "  The  mischievous  school-boy  was  uppermost  in 
David  now  — "  and  how  proud  she  was  of  being  descended  from 
the  Hereford  Swinleys?  Well,  now  it's  got  round  to  her  how 
some  one  said  publicly  that  of  course  she's  really  a  German  and 
everybody  knows  her  real  name  is  Schweinthal !  " 

Richard  threw  back  his  head  and  filled  the  room  with  his 
guffaws. 

"  Schweinthal  —  Swine-valley  .  .  .  Swinley !  Oh,  that's  top- 
hole!  She  was  always  so  jolly  full  of  swank  and  backbone. 
But  all  the  same,  Redbury,  I'm  all  at  sea  with  these  swarms 
of  English  county  people  that  have  magically  cropped  up  in 
our  set  during  the  last  few  weeks.  No  offence  meant  to  you, 
but  who  the  deuce  are  the  Lanes  and  the  Silvertons  and  the 
Mounts  and  the  Gordons  and  the  Meadowes?  " 

"  All  old  familiar  faces  really.  And  I  can  tell  you  who  the 
Mounts  and  the  Meadowes  are,  anyhow  .  .  .  they're  each  one- 
half  of  my  cousins,  the  Wiesenbergs.  The  elder  and  younger 
branch  of  the  family  have  long  been  at  daggers  drawn,  and 
they've  hailed  the  opportunity  to  split  into  two.  And  the 
Mounts  know  nothing  of  the  Meadowes,  nor  shall  the  Meadowes 
ever  go  to  meet  the  Mounts.  My  other  cousin,  whose  father 
changed  his  name  about  forty  years  ago,  swears  that  he'll 
change  it  back  again  from  Holmes  to  Hohenheim  by  way  of 
protest  to  all  the  funk  and  flurry." 

"  Quite  a  pleasing  moment  at  our  boarding-house  last  week, 
when  two  Scandinavian  ladies  were  introduced  to  each  other 
and  neither  knew  the  language," 

"But  both  broke  into  floods  of  delighted  German?  That's 
what  happens  these  days  when  Swede  meets  Swede." 

"Aunt  Stella  says  speaking  German  nowadays  is  as  good 
a  thrill  as  the  invention  of  a  new  sin,  and  far  superior  to 
secret  drinking  or  smoking  or  swearing.  .  .  .  You  do  it  in  a 
dark  room,  under  your  breath,  looking  over  your  shoulder." 

"  And  in  public  you  carefully  mispronounce  German  towns 
and  Generals,  in  case  it  should  be  suspected  that  you  pronounce 
them  not  wisely  but  too  well.  Father's  getting  quite  a  dab 
at  throwing  off  his  little  jokes  eibout  the  Kayzer.     Comic  birth- 


138  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

places  are  the  fashion  as  well;  two  of  the  Ladenbach  girls, 
when  the  question  crops  up,  have  been  instructed  to  say  they 
were  born  in  a  wagon-lit;  and  the  boy  Julius,  on  the  steps  of 
the  Venezuelan  Consulate.  .  .  ." 

"  Looks  as  if  Frau  Ladenbach  had  dropped  'em  about  rather 
carelessly,"  chuckled  Richard.  He  was  glad  he  had  come  this 
afternoon.  It  was  years  since  he  had  been  at  all  intimate  with 
David  Rothenburg,  and  the  impulse  to  seek  him  out  had  been 
the  result  of  a  strange  weariness  of  all  his  other  friends  who 
could  not  be  taken  for  granted  as  understanding,  without 
elaborate  foreword  and  explanation,  all  these  present  chaotic 
conditions  of  Germans  and  semi-Germans.  .  .  . 

"  Come  out,"  David  suggested.  "  It's  stuffy  in  here,  and 
I  want  to  take  a  parcel  of  books  round  to  —  to  some  people 
quite  near.  .  .  .  You  can  help  me  carry  'em." 

In  the  hall  Nell  and  Samson  Phillips  were  talking  in  an 
earnest  whisper.  Nell  wore  heavy  golden  furs  flopping  over 
her  thick  brown  outdoor  coat,  and  a  wide-brimmed  golden  hat. 
She  was  a  very  decorative  figure  in  all  shades  from  sallow 
through  ivory  to  rich  umber;  her  thick  skin,  the  cream-dusky 
colour  of  honeysuckle,  could  certainly  never  flush  to  any  shade 
of  pink;  only  when  she  was  moved,  her  eyes  glowed  deeper. 
They  glowed  now,  at  the  sight  of  the  two  boys  descending  the 
staircase. 

"  Oh,  Richard,  where  is  Deb  this  afternoon?  She  said 
something  about  coming  here?  " 

"  Did  she?  I  believe  she's  gone  to  that  Russian  singing 
woman,  La  lloraine.     Anyway,  you're  going  out,  aren't  you?  " 

"  Yes.  Oh  yes.  Antonia  Verity  has  invited  me  to  a  picture- 
show.     I'm  waiting  for  her  to  call  for  me.     But  I  thought  if 

Deb    came  .  .  .  but    it    doesn't    matter "     She    glanced 

swiftly  corner-wise  at  Samson  Phillips,  and  her  look  said 
plainly  "  I'm  sorry."  .  .  .  Then  Mr.  Redbury  came  out  of  the 
smoking-room  into  the  hall. 

"  Veil,  yong  beople  " —  he  beamed  approval  on  Nell  and 
Phillips  — "  I  like  to  see  yong  beople  enchoying  zemselves 
togezzer.     How   is   your    fazer,    Marcus?     Vun    doesn't   see 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  139 

much  of  him  lately."  But  he  quickly  changed  the  subject, 
for  Ferdinand  Marcus  was  hardly  more  English  than  Mr.  Otto 
Redbury  himself,  and  therefore  at  present  socially  useless  as 
an  asset.  "  Ven  are  you  going  to  put  on  ghagi,  hein?  You're 
ze  same  age  as  David,  aren't  you?  " 

"  Nearly,"  said  Richard. 

"  David  vos  so  keen  —  ah,  veil,  we  can't  all  be  as  keen.  .  .  . 
Vish  I  vos  a  poy,  and  could  choin  up.  Hey,  Phillips,  vill  you 
take  me  a  regruit  in  your  rechiment?  Vere  are  you  two  off 
to,  Nell?" 

"  Pictures,  father." 

"  To  ze  bictures?  Good.  Enchoy  yourselves.  Look  veil 
after  her,  Phillips.     She's  my  only  girl  left,  you  see." 

"Your  eldest  daughter  is  living  with  you  for  the  present, 
isn't  she,  Mr.  Redbury?  "  enquired  the  hoped-for  son-in-law. 

The  prospectively  bereaved  father  did  not  look  grateful  for 
the  proffered  consolation  of  Hedda.  "  Run  away  to  ze  bictures, 
yong  beople,"  and  prepared  to  re-enter  the  smoking-room. 

"  Pictures,  father,  not  the  pictures,"  Nell  explained,  speaking 
as  she  always  did,  like  a  shy  but  rapid  cascade,  perpetually 
dammed.     "  Miss  Verity  has  invited  me  —  she  is  fetching  me. 

Not "     She  dared  not  let  him  continue  in  the  belief  that 

she  was  to  be  escorted  by  Samson. 

"  Two  girls  vun  vay  and  two  boys  anuzzer,  and  leave  an  old 
fogey  like  me  to  entertain  the  Gaptain?  No,  no,  that's  a 
foolish  arranchment.  Vait  for  your  friend,  Nell,  and  all  go 
to  the  bictures  togezzer." 

"  Pictures,  father.  Not  the  pictures.  And  I'm  not  sure  if 
Antonia " 

"All  be  cholly  togezzer,"  her  father  commanded  her,  peev- 
ish at  her  second  attempt  at  protest. 

"  Gom  in  veneffer  you  get  leave,  Phillips.  Always  velcome. 
Good-pye,  yong  Marcus.  I  hope  to  see  you  in  ghagi  next 
time;  "  and  went  into  the  smoking-room,  irascibly  slamming 
the  door  after  him. 

"  I'm  hanged,  if  I'll  be  convivial  to  order,"  said  David. 
"  'Bye,   Nell !  "   he   nodded   carelessly   to    Phillips.     *'  Come 


14«  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

along,  Marcus."  On  the  steps  they  passed  Antonia  Verity  on 
her  way  to  fetch  Nell. 

"Are  you  waiting  for  me,  Nell?  good  child!  "  She  rested 
her  calm  lingering  regard  on  Samson  Phillips,  who,  stolidly 
planted  against  the  umbrella-stand,  did  not  budge. 

Nell  wished  she  could  run  away,  wished  she  were  dead; 
anything  to  be  drastically  removed  from  this  awful  predica- 
ment between  two  people  who  did  not  know  each  other,  of  one 
of  whom  she  was  still  deadly  shy,  the  other  commanded  by  her 
father  to  be  their  escort.  .  .  .  What  was  she  to  do?  How 
long  could  they  all  stand  like  this  glaring  at  one  another?  The 
simple  expedient  of  introducing  Samson  to  Antonia  never 
occurred  to  Nell,  who  was  very  childish  for  her  seventeen 
years.  She  just  stood  with  interlocked  fingers,  suffering.  .  .  . 
"  Perhaps  if  we  wait  long  enough,  Captain  Phillips  will  go 
away.  ...  Is  that  how  things,  dreadful  things,  come  to  an 
end?  '* 

III 

"Wonder  he  didn't  give  me  a  white  feather?"  growled 
Richard,  as  they  walked  up  the  street. 

David's  eyes  were  blazing  in  his  thin  brown  face. 

"  Hanging  on  to  anything,  anybody,  English ;  Beatrice  — 
Con  at  the  Front  .  .  .  old  Con. —  And  now  he  wants  Samson 
Phillips;  wants  to  shove  Nell  into  the  fellow's  arms.  .  .  It's 
so  cursedly  undignified,  this  crawling  round  the  feet  of  a  coun- 
try that  stands  about  with  folded  arms,  not  wanting  you." 

Richard  was  about  to  agree,  when  a  peculiar  thing  happened 
to  him.  He  was  made  aware  of  the  Soul  of  Otto  Redbury.  .  .  . 
He  saw  it  very  clearly,  small  twitching  pink  nose  of  a  rabbit  — 
not  at  all  unlike  the  Soul  of  Gottlieb  Schnabel,  the  little  baker. 
Alongside  of  these  two,  his  own  soul  was  an  instant  laid,  then 
snatched  away  again  .  .  .  queer  company  for  the  soul  of 
Richard  Marcus;  he  found  Redbury  objectionable,  and  despised 
Schnabel,  but  —  he  understood.  Funny  that  David,  who  was 
supposed  to  be  an  imaginative  womanish  creature,  thrilling 
quickly  to  response,  a  nature  artistic  and  intuitive  and  all  that 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  141 

sort  of  thing,  should  reveal  himself  in  certain  cases  so  hard  and 
blunt. 

Richard  said  slowly :  "  It's  such  a  beastly  position  for  all 
of  them  —  all  of  us,"  he  amended;  but  it  still  seemed  a  gro- 
tesque nightmare  that  he  should  be  one  of  the  band  whom  he 
was  unwillingly  compelled  to  understand  and  defend. 

"  It's  all  very  well  to  be  down  on  your  pater,  Redbury,  and 
of  course  one  rags  about  the  change  of  names,  and  Swiss  wait- 
ers and  so  on  —  but  it's  so  utterly  unnatural  to  have  no  coun- 
try when  your  country  is  the  one  thing  in  all  the  world  that 
matters.  As  good  patriots  as  any  are  drifting  about  loose  with 
nowhere  to  dump  their  load  of  patriotism.  Oh,  I  know  the 
stock  argument  —  they  should  have  stuck  to  the  place  where 
they  were  born.  Well,  a  few  thousands,  a  few  tens  of  thou- 
sands haven't  done  so;  it's  no  good  pretending  that  it  was  as 
important  before  nineteen-fourteen  as  now." 

"  I  suppose  the  English  didn't  overflow  and  get  stranded  on 
No  Man's  Land  in  such  numbers,  because  they  could  always 
colonize,"  David  conjectured. 

"  And  now  this  war ;  we  scramble  for  cover.  And  the  safe 
people  who  have  settled  for  generations  in  one  place,  of  one 
country,  of  unmixed  blood,  laugh  at  us  for  scuttling.  Do  they 
ever  think  how  easy  it  is  —  no  merit,  but,  God!  how  easy,  to 
be  born  in  England,  wholly  English,  when  they  say  of  the  half 
and  half  brigade:  'Let  'em  get  back  to  their  own  country  — 
we  don't  want  'em!  '?  But  they  might  have  said  that  before 
1914,  to  have  given  them  a  chance  to  get  back.  They  can't 
get  back  now.  Their  own  so-called  country  doesn't  want  'em 
either.  .  .  .  Won't  have  them;  calls  them  renegades,  who 
have  severed  all  ties,  all  obligations.  And  there  they  are, 
absolutely  helpless  between  the  two.  Belonging  to  both  —  no 
—  belonging  to  neither.  Can  claim  protection  from  neither. 
They're  frightened,  I  tell  you,  David.  All  this  frantic  jabber 
of  the  Hidden  Hand  —  why,  there  have  been  practically  no 
cases  where  the  naturalized  German  has  been  proved  guilty 
of  plotting  against  England  in  the  interests  of  the  Hun.  One 
)r  two,  perhaps,  among  thousands.     But  rejected  by  Germany, 


142  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

rejected  by  England,  dashed  from  one  to  the  other  —  how  can 
they  help  all  those  little  acts  that  revolt  you  as  being  ridiculous 
or  —  what  do  you  call  it?  undignified?  —  ostentatiously 
planking  down  their  names  on  subscription  lists,  kow-towing 
to  the  English  servants,  change  of  name,  and  pretending  to  be 
Dutch,  and  pitiful  swanking  of  their  English  friends;  even 
grabbing  at  Samson  Phillips  to  get  him  in  the  family  at  all 
costs. —  All  that  isn't  treachery,  but  ordinary  childish  human 
funk." 

"  Why,  at  the  worst,  what  can  be  done  to  them?  " 

"  Nothing  very  bad.  Nothing  at  all  compared  with  what 
the  men  at  the  Front  have  to  go  through;  think  I  don't  know 
that?  "  Richard  questioned  fiercely.  "And  yet  they  wouldn't 
be  funking  if  they  belonged  to  a  country,  and  had  a  united 
cause  to  fight  for.  It's  not  being  able  to  shout  with  the  rest. 
It's  the  bitter  desolation,  nowadays,  of  fighting  for  one's  own 
hand.  .  .  ." 

He  became  aware  of  David's  slow  quizzical  smile. 

"  The  miracle  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty  awakened,"  he  com- 
mented softly.  "  If  nothing  else,  the  Great  War  has  at  least 
done  this  for  one  Richard  Marcus.  Rather  a  drastic  kiss,  but 
astoundingly  effective." 

"  Shut  up !  "  Richard  kicked  at  a  stone  in  the  roadway. 
Head  bent,  hands  clenched  in  his  pockets  —  as  if  he  wanted 
to  think.  As  if  he  welcomed  this  disconcerting  upheaval  of 
his  imagination  ...  to  be  able  to  understand  Otto  Redbury  — 
what  next?  To  stick  up  for  a  lot  of  rotten  Germans — Marcus 
of  Winborough,  champion  half-back  of  the  footer  team  — 
Greville  Dunne's  pal  — average  at  his  work,  but  a  decent  or- 
dinary all-round  fellow,  and  no  end  keen  on  a  commission  in 
the  R.  F.  C.  Never  again,  for  him.  Never  again.  Something 
had  happened.  .  .  .  Richard  walked  along  savagely  mourning 
for  the  self  that  had  once  fitted  him  so  easily.  .  .  .  Never 
again ! 

David  noticed  his  dejection  —  and  amusement  softened  into 
something  resembling  tenderness  for  this  strong  bull-necked 
fellow,  helpless  in  the  grip  of  his  first  individual  problem.     It 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  143 

must  have  been  a  bad  shock  so  to  have  galvanized  him  from 
matter-of-course  unthinking  acceptance  of  a  scheme  of  life 
which  had  been  hitherto  fair  enough  and  good  enough  .  .  . 
tread  of  many  feet  all  marching  in  the  same  direction  .  .  .  and 
now  —  No  Man's  Land. 

There  was  little  for  David  himself  to  learn  about  the  by- 
ways and  customs  of  this  nebulous  territory  —  from  his  earliest 
childhood  he  had  wandered  there.  And  he  realized  that  it  was 
not  to  the  habitual  thinkers  that  the  war  and  what  it  involved 
had  made  such  a  shattering  difference  —  but  to  those  who  had 
never  thought  before.  .  .  .  Poor  old  Richard  ...  all  those 
tmnbled  we's  and  they's  of  his  utterance  ...  he  hardly  knew 
yet  where  he  belonged  —  too  doggedly  proud  to  include  him- 
self with  the  nation  who  did  not  want  him  —  yet  jibbing  at 
classification  with  the  despised  alien  enemy.  Poor  old  Rich- 
ard, it  was  rather  a  shame. 

"At  any  rate,  we're  both  in  the  same  boat,"  David  ex- 
claimed, carried  away  by  a  quick  impulse  to  solace.  Immedi- 
ately his  companion,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  toppled  him  out 
of  the  boat. 

*'  No,  we're  not.  You're  born  over  here.  You're  all  right. 
You'd  be  English  if  you  weren't  a  pro-German." 

"  Damn  it!     I'm  not  a  pro-German.     I'm  a  Jew." 

"  What  the "  Richard  in  his  astonishment  stopped  dead 

(Ml  the  pavement. 

"Well?" 

"  What  has  being  a  Jew  got  to  do  with  it?  It's  a  question 
of  nationality,  not  a  religion." 

"  The  Jews  are  a  nation.  If  it  were  only  a  theological  dif- 
ference, why  should  that  have  affected  such  a  very  marked 
distinction  of  feature  and  temperament?  Going  to  Synagogue 
instead  of  to  Church  doesn't  alter  the  curve  of  a  nose.  Of 
course  we're  a  nation  apart,  apart  and  scattered  —  but  racially 
the  most  united  in  the  world.  And  that's  another  of  my  pri- 
vate reasons  for  wearing  khaki  —  because  the  English  have 
been  good  to  the  Jews,  have  given  them  sanctuary  and  treated 
them  as  equals.     They  have  a  claim  on  our  services.     While 


144  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

Germany  has  always  behaved  like  a  swine  to  Judea.  .  .  .  I'm 
not  a  pro-German,  Marcus,  but  there's  a  kinship  between 
English  Jews  and  German  Jews  and  Russian  Jews  and  Italian 
and  American  and  Polish  and  Roumanian  and  Austrian  Jews, 
that  no  war  ever  waged  can  entirely  destroy.  I  don't  want  to 
see  a  Jew  hurt  —  and,  oh  God !  I  don't  want  to  hurt  another 
Jew.  We're  a  race  of  artists  and  financiers  and  wanderers  — 
not  of  fighters." 

"  I.  don't  know  about  that.  Jehovah  was  a  God  of  din  and 
battle,  wasn't  He?  I'm  a  bit  foggy  about  the  Old  Testament, 
but  I  seem  to  remember  that  they  were  always  at  it,  hammer 
and  tongs.  And  pater  says  that  Jews  are  ardent  patriots  by 
temperament." 

"  Yes  —  with  nowhere  to  put  it.  All  countries,  and  no 
countries,  and  the  countries  from  which  we've  been  driven, 
and  the  countries  where  we  hope  to  go  back.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry 
we  can't  change  over,  you  and  I,  Richard.  The  feeling  of  per- 
secution isn't  new  to  me.  .  .  .  I've  got  the  sense  of  it  in  my 
very  bones.  .  .  .  I've  been  hounded  with  my  ancestors  from 
the  East  through  Russia  .  .  .  through  Central  Europe.  .  .  ." 

"Good  Lord,"  Richard  broke  in:  "I  believe  you  enjoy 
feeling  like  that." 

And  David  laughed :  "  I  believe  I  do.  It's  our  heritage  — 
this  succulent  style  of  melancholy,  like  seaweed  swelling  richly 
under  water,  compared  with  which  all  other  sorrow  is  like  sea- 
weed, hard  and  stale  and  crackly,  on  the  dry  sand." 

"  Can't  say  that  either  is  my  style.  I  just  get  damned  sick 
about  things.  I'm  damned  sick  at  not  being  able  to  join  up 
in  the  Flying  Corps." 

"  You're  only  a  semi- Jew,  Marcus,  in  spite  of  the  rich  promise 
of  your  face." 

"  I  am  only  a  semi- Jew;  my  mother  was  a  Christian.  And 
what's  wrong  with  my  face?  "  Richard  demanded  truculently. 
"  I  say  —  where  are  you  taking  me?  "  as  David  swerved  into 
a  narrow  street  of  tall  dingy-looking  buildings. 

"  It's  all  right.  I  just  want  to  bring  them  these  books." 
He  ran  up  some  steps  of  a  house  with  the  "  To  Let "  board 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  145 

forlornly  plastering  the  windows;  and  as  the  bell  dangled 
broken  from  its  socket,  and  no  knocker  was  in  evidence,  banged 
with  his  fist  on  the  panels  of  the  front  door. 

"  Rum,"  thought  Richard. 

A  tall,  heavy-featured  girl  opened  the  door,  and  in  silence 
led  them  to  an  unfurnished  room  littered  with  books  and  pack- 
ing-cases and  piles  of  tinned  food.  A  babble  of  tongues  struck 
harshly  upon  the  ear.  .  .  For  a  second's  space  of  time  Richard 
was  walking  up  the  wide  twilit  streets  of  Dorzheim  —  a  dado 
of  pines  lowering  blackly  on  the  horizon  —  crowds  brushing 
past,  chattering  —  noisy  guttural  chatter  from  the  pavements 
and  cafes.  .  .  .  "You  will  see  how  many  take  off  their  hats 
to  me.  .  .  ." 

"  This  is  my  pal,"  Redbury  explained  carelessly  to  the  room 
at  large.     "  He's  one  of  us " 

All  Richard's  being  uprose  in  a  growl  of  contradiction. 
"One  of  us?  "  Why,  these  people  were  Germans  —  talking 
German,  the  whole  gang  of  them  —  about  eight  or  nine.  .  .  . 
If  he  had  been  a  tom-cat,  he  would  have  stiffened  his  fur  and 
spat.  As  it  was,  he  responded  churlishly  to  salutations,  and 
retired  to  a  window-seat  in  the  corner,  from  there  to  watch 
from  beneath  humped  eyebrows  the  mysterious  proceedings 
of  these  friends  of  David. 

The  atmosphere  oppressed  him  with  the  memory  of  all  the 
rumours  circulated  about  German  spies  .  .  .  German  Secret 
Service.  .  .  .  England  honeycombed  with  treachery.  .  .  . 
What  were  they  doing,  in  this  empty  house,  talking  German 
with  the  passionate  zest  of  tongues  let  loose  from  hours  of 
irksome  restraint?  .  .  .  What  was  in  those  tins  and  cases? 
.  .  .  How  had  they  got  hold  of  the  German  newspapers  and 
pamphlets  lying  about?  .  .  .  One  of  the  group  was  reading 
aloud  a  German  letter  now,  and  all  listened  tensely,  some  still 
kneeling  on  the  dusty  boards  with  their  arms  full  of  books  — 
all  except  David  and  the  heavy-looking  girl  and  a  boy  with  a 
flowing  tie  and  thick  lips  and  incredibly  close  shaven  head,  who 
were  engrossed  in  some  private  discussion.  .  .  .  The  girl  pro- 
duced a  pile  of  music  and  their  heads  bent  closer  over  the  score. 


146  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

Confounded  insolence  this,  in  the  very  heart  of  London! 
Richard's  mood  wavered  from  indignation  to  a  queer  sort  of 
panic  at  being  thus  associated.  He  wondered  if  he  ought  to 
give  information?  No,  he  could  hardly  do  that,  brought  here 
in  all  good  faith  by  David.  But  even  supposing  that  these 
people  were  bent  on  no  actual  harm  —  and  commonsense  as- 
serted that  they  were  merely  packing  hampers  for  the  German 
prisoners,  and  the  same  time  enjoying  a  little  licence  of  their 
native  speech  —  even  then,  how  dared  David  suppose  that  he 
was  "  One  of  us  "  among  these  —  these  Huns.  Not  a  fibre  of 
kinship  in  him  stretched  to  meet  them.  He  was  as  utterly 
an  alien  here  as  .  .  . 

As  he  had  been  at  Winborough,  this  last  term. 

A  sudden  ache  asserted  itself  for  Greville  Dunne's  grey  eyes 
looking  straight  from  under  the  rim  of  his  midshipman's  cap; 
for  Greville's  English  voice,  and  divine  lack  of  understanding 
for  all  things  save  what  was  usual  and  fitting  a  young  Britisher 
of  eighteen  should  understand;  ache  for  Mrs.  Dunne  and  for 
the  Dunnes'  cottage  home  in  Kent  —  for  Molly's  tom-boy  ex- 
uberance, and  young  Frank  dashing  into  the  chintz  sitting- 
room  with  his  toboggan. 

Only  of  course  they  would  be  blank  to  the  badgering  per- 
plexities which  David  Rothenburg 

In  an  effort  to  escape  from  the  linked  chain  of  thought, 
Richard  took  up  a  journal  lying  on  the  ground  near  his  feet. 
It  was  a  month-old  copy  of  the  Tageblatt.  In  little  separate 
squares  outlined  in  black  were  the  names  of  those  who  had 
fallen  in  action :  "  Thomas  Spalding  —  Gef alien,  14ten  Juni 
1915."  .  .  .  What  was  this  palpably  English  name  doing 
among  the  list  of  German  officers?  Thomas  Spalding?  Rich- 
ard speculated  idly  on  the  anomaly,  till  fancy  quickened  to 
realization  that  this  Thomas  Spalding  was  his  own  equivalent 
on  the  other  side  —  over  there  a  boy  of  English  parentage 
brought  up  in  Germany,  enlisted  in  the  German  army,  with  his 
sympathies  .  .  .  where?  Over  here,  Richard  Marcus,  of  Ger- 
man parentage,  brought  up  in  England  —  Ah  well,  Thomas 
Spalding  had  more  luck  than  he.    They  had  taken  him  in  the 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  147 

army  and  he  had  been  killed  in  action.  Nevertheless,  who 
knows  what  he  may  have  had  to  endure  first,  from  taunts  and 
coldness  and  suspicion,  outcast  emotions  pushed  this  way  and 
that.  Inevitably  the  lot  of  those  who  are  not  entirely  sons  of 
the  soil  on  which  they  fight  .  .  .  die  ..."  Thomas  Spalding, 
Gefallen."  .  .  .  Richard  stared  at  the  brief  announcement  till 
a  sting  of  tears  rushed  to  his  eyes.  He  wished  he  could  have 
had  just  one  talk,  one  grip  of  the  hand  with  his  unknown 
comrade,  suddenly  nearer  and  more  vivid  to  him  than  either 
Greville  or  David. 

You  and  I,  Thomas  Spalding.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  III 


SAMSON  PHILLIPS  was  first  and  foremost  a  man  of 
tenacious  disposition.  He  heard  Antonia  mention  that 
Deb  was  to  be  found  that  Saturday  afternoon  with  a 
certain  person  of  the  name  of  lloraine,  and  that  she  intended 
a  visit  to  the  same  person,  on  her  way  home  after  the  picture- 
show.  Therefore,  by  doggedly  attaching  himself  to  Nell  and 
her  friend  during  the  picture-show,  as  he  was  well  able  to  do 
after  Otto's  admonition  to  conviviality;  by  dint  of  an  after- 
noon's complete  boredom  and  stiff  discomfort;  and  by  stead- 
fast repetition  of  "Well  —  where  do  we  go  now?  "  at  every 
projected  flight  on  the  part  of  Antonia  and  Nell,  when  circum- 
stances offered  a  break  in  the  concerted  programme,  as  outside 
the  Redburys'  front  door,  or  after  the  complete  and  lingering 
tour  of  the  Leicester  Galleries:  "No,  I  don't  care  much  for 
this  kind  of  picture."  Or  after  half  an  hour  spent  in  some 
neighbouring  and  drearily  respectable  tea-rooms;  in  fact,  by 
simple  dint  of  "  hanging  on,"  Samson  presently  found  himself 
being  welcomed  by  La  lloraine,  after  the  manner  of  a  Royal 
Mistress  of  the  Robes  receiving  the  Royal  Master  of  the  Stag- 
hounds.  .  .  .  She  was  in  one  of  her  "  legitimate "  moods; 
wit  and  not  coarseness  was  the  passport  for  innuendo.  They 
had  rented  a  rambling  underground  flat  off  Elgin  Avenue, 
where  their  furniture  had  at  last  a  chance  to  spread  itself;  the 
vast  drawing-room,  lit  by  candelabra  night  and  day,  was  thick- 
carpeted  and  sparsely  furnished  by  a  Louis  couch  and  chair, 
a  piano,  and  a  table  that  held  some  delicate  simpering  minia- 
tures. Manon  moved  about  the  dim  spaces,  a  solitary  unchild- 
like  little  princess  with  wide  skirts  and  golden  hair  that  was 
brushed  high  off  her  forehead  and  piled  into  stiflF  curls.  ,  .  . 

U8 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  149 

Obviously,  the  more  disreputable  phase  of  peroxide,  clothes- 
line, and  variety  entertainment,  was  for  the  moment  in  abey- 
ance. 

Samson  awkwardly  approached  Deb  and  Clifife  Kennedy, 
who  were  talking  together  by  the  window. 

"  Good  afternoon,  Miss  Marcus." 

"You?     How  funny!  "  Deb  began  to  laugh. 

Samson  was  funny,  in  juxtaposition  with  La  lloraine  and 
Cliffe  Kennedy.     He  was  so  unplastic. 

"  Who  brought  you  here?     Antonia?  " 

"  I  came  to  see  Miss  Verity  home." 

"  But  she  has  only  just  come." 

He  held  to  his  point.  She  would  some  time  or  other  be 
obliged  to  make  a  departure,  and  then  his  services  as  an  escort 
would  naturally  be  required.  A  girl  should  not  traverse  the 
dark  streets  unaccompanied.  A  girl  should  be  aware  of  perils 
besetting  her,  though  ignorant  of  their  nature. 

Samson  enquired  how  Deb  proposed  to  reach  home.  "  This 
is  the  worst  end  of  Elgin  Avenue,"  he  hinted  darkly,  and  looked 
with  suspicion  at  Cliffe  Kennedy,  who  passed  his  hand  across 
his  eyes  as  though  brushing  away  a  hideous  memory,  and  said 
abruptly:  "I've  never  spoken  to  you  of  my  little  sister  — 
have  I?" 

Deb  knew  that  he  was  an  only  child.  But  she  also  knew 
by  now  his  marvellous  talent  for  fitting  every  subject  that  came 
up  with  local  interest  of  personal  experience.  What  she  did 
not  know  was  exactly  how  real  was  the  momentary  belief  which 
inflated  his  account  of  the  lovely  and  cherished  little  sister  — 
Beth,  her  name  —  whom  Cliffe  had  once  been  requisitioned  to 
fetch  from  an  evening  party.  There  had  been  a  woman  — 
he  had  not  gone.  "  Some  one  else  will  see  the  Babe  home." 
.  .  .  Beth,  tired  of  delay,  having  refused  all  other  escort  — 
"  I'm  waiting  for  my  brother,  thanks,"  with  childlike  pride  — 
had  at  last  started  off  by  herself.  .  .  . 

"  It  was  months  before  we  gave  up  the  search.  And  it 
killed  my  mother  —  spiritually,"  Cliffe  amended,  recollecting 
that  Deb  had  frequently  lunched  with  Mrs.  Kennedy.     "  Her 


150  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

hair  went  snow-white  during  those  months "  mournful  eyes 

fixed  on  Samson's  aghast,  attentive  face.  His  gaze  wandered 
to  Deb's,  read  there  a  gentle  reminder  of  the  dear  old  lady's 
almost  unpowdered  dark  brown  coronal;  and  without  the 
slightest  perceptible  break  in  the  narrative,  sank  his  voice  to 
the  supplementary  explanation :  "  Yes  —  she  dyed  it  for  my 
sake.  I  simply  couldn't  bear  it.  My  fault  —  damnable  ego- 
ridden  slothful  beast! — and  the  perpetual  sight  of  that 
piled-up  silveriness  never  let  me  forget  for  a  moment  what  she 
had  suffered  —  what  we  all  suffered  .  .  .  she  guessed  it  was 
driving  me  to  madness  —  Other  women  condemned  what  she 
did  —  called  it  preposterous  vanity  ...  at  her  age.  God !  one 
of  the  divinest  impulses  of  pure  love " 

By  now,  Cliffe  was  so  swathed  about  in  self -spun  illusion  of 
tender  maternal  sacrifice  and  a  lost  little  sister,  that  Samson 
may  have  been  pardoned  for  horrified  credulity: 

"And  you  never  heard  anything  —  no  news  —  no 
clue ?" 

"  I  spend  regularly  four  nights  a  week  in  brothels,"  Cliffe 
replied  with  exquisite  simplicity  —  and  Samson  checked  a  stern 
protest  at  use  of  a  word  which,  after  all,  Deb  could  not  pos- 
sibly understand. 

"  But  I'm  making  you  melancholy  with  all  this.  A  chance 
word  reminded  me  —  I'll  see  you  home  tonight,  Deb;  but  I 
hope  you're  not  relying  on  me  to  pay  your  bus-fares;  you  still 
seem  to  cling  to  the  outworn  tradition  that  gentlemen,  beauti- 
ful glossy  eligible  gentlemen  who  live  in  Kensington  Palace 
Gardens,  always  pay  the  fare  of  the  young  lady  they're  walking- 
out  with  —  or  rather  riding-out  with.  I've  noticed  a  semi- 
diffident,  semi-expectant  look  that  you  always  direct  towards 
me  when  the  conductor  comes  round,  and  you  pull  out  your 
modest  little  purse  —  and  I'm  hypnotically  compelled  to  the 
low  rapid  pained  yet  masterful  and  at  the  same  time  un- 
obtrusive utterance:  '  No  —  please  —  allow  me  —  I  insist.' 
.  .  .  And  I  can't  afford  it,  Deb.  I'll  see  you  home  tonight, 
but  you  must  pay  your  own  fares." 

Samson  favoured  the  speaker  with  a  look  so  expressive  of 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  151 

the  "  beautiful  glossy  eligible  gentleman  who  lived  in  Kensing- 
ton Palace  Gardens  "  that  Deb's  eyes,  encountering  Kennedy's, 
were  an  elves'  dance  of  green  and  grey  merriment. 

"  I  will  accompany  Miss  Marcus  home,  if  she  allows  me." 

"Are  you  pledged  to  see  Nell  home  as  well?  Antonia  and 
Nell  and  I  all  live  in  different  directions,  you  know." 

"  David  Redbury  is  calling  for  his  sister."  Samson  stationed 
himself  in  an  uncomfortable  attitude  beside  the  lounging  in- 
timate pair,  and  remained  there  unbudgingly  on  guard,  de- 
clining to  be  drawn  into  their  conversation;  nor  yet  to  be  be- 
guiled away  by  any  inducement  of  refreshment  or  music. 

Meanwhile,  La  lloraine  was  making  Nell  welcome. 

"  My  dee-urr,  you  are  that  friend  I  have  been  wanting  always 
for  my  Manon  .  .  .  she  grows  too  old,  too  staid  —  She  is  with 
me  and  the  Countess  and  Stella  Marcus  and  Mrs.  Verity  —  she 
hears  us  talk  —  it  is  not  always  well  that  she  should  hear  us 
talk.  The  Countess  has  a  most  tragic  business  on  the  carpet, 
my  dee-urr  .  .  .  wait,  I  will  tell  you  —  or  when  we  have  more 
time,  perhaps.  But  my  Manon  —  you  shall  see  her  every  day 
—  all  day  —  so  she  will  grow  a  child  again  —  healthy,  romp- 
ing children,  you  and  she.  .  .  .  You  can  eat  your  dejeuner 
here,  and  slie  her  dinner  with  you  —  ideal !  —  it  shall  be 
planned  .  .  .  for  listen:  "  She  sank  her  voice  to  the  confi- 
dential pitch,  holding  Nell  inexorably  captive  with  one  hand, 
and  with  the  other  sweeping  wide  descriptive  circles.  "At 
present  she  muses  too  much  of  marriage  and  what  it  brings. 
She  sleeps  badly.  She  put  me  questions  —  soch  questions 
.  .  .  Wait,  I  will  tell  you  my  plans.  .  .  .  That  marriage,  when 
it  koms  —  ah,  it  will  be  somesing!  superb!  you  see.  But  it  is 
essential  she  shall  be  fresh  and  unconscious  and  blooming.  .  .  . 
Those  girls,  Antonia,  Deb,  they  are  no  more  early-morning, 
.  .  .  They  dream  not  .  .  .  they  laugh  at  love.  My  dee-urr,  it 
YDS  vonderful  you  should  been  brought  here  for  my  Manon! 

"Now  tell  me,  my  dee-urr,  are  you  trobbled  inside  about 
that  question  of  a  hosband?     Or  your  mother?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ...  I  mean  —  I  haven't  any.  .  .  ."  And 
then,  from  the  midst  of  confusion,  Nell  pushed  out  a  courage- 


152  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

ous:  "  I  think  it's  horrid  to  talk  about  husbands  and  that  sort 
of  thing." 

La  lloraine  was  switched  off  at  the  main.  And  Antonia, 
overhearing,  smiled  at  Nell  encouragingly.  She  and  Deb 
agreed  that  it  took  weeks  of  hard  labour  to  pierce  young  Nell's 
dreamy  layers  of  impenetrability.  As  one  put  out  a  tamer's 
hand,  swiftly  her  fugitive  spirit  darted  away,  in  a  tremor  of 
shadows  and  dreams;  thoughts  that  frightened  her,  so  like 
couchant,  half-slumbering  beasts  they  seemed.  Sweeter 
thoughts  that  slipped  from  chill  grey  to  silvery  sheen  — aspen- 
leaves  stirred  by  a  wind  from  nowhere,  and  hushed  again.  It 
amused  Antonia  not  a  little  that  La  lloraine  should  in  public 
and  within  the  first  five  minutes  of  meeting,  demand  an  outburst 
of  articulate  confidence  on  the  subject  of  Nell's  troubled  inside 
on  tliat  question  of  a  husband. 

Nell  and  Manon,  swept  imperiously  together  by  the  opera- 
singer's  enthusiasm,  and  expected  to  begin  romping  without 
delay,  eyed  each  other  in  furtive  dislike  .  .  .  till  Manon's  de- 
mure sang-froid  relieved  the  situation. 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  my  canary?  " 

"  No,"  said  Nell,  in  a  passion  of  pity  for  the  artificial  life 
any  bird  must  lead,  in  that  hectic  twilight  atmosphere. 

After  a  pause  Manon  tried  again.  "  The  young  man  who 
has  just  entered  the  drawing-room  has  beautiful  eyes.  Do  you 
not  think  so?  " 

"  He's  my  brother  David.  And  he's  only  a  boy.  He's  the 
youngest  of  us.'' 

Her  prospective  friend  shrugged  plump  shoulders  semi-bare 
in  her  quaint  early  Victorian  frock.  "  Too  young  for  me,  bien 
entendu.  Doubtless  he  will  be  infatuated  with  Mamma.  The 
men  of  her  age  who  visit  her,  take  no  notice  of  Mamma,  comma 
femme,  you  understand,  but  try  always  to  play  with  me.  And 
they  pretend  it  is  as  a  child  that  they  make  a  pet  of  me,  and  I 
pretend  too,  and  Mamma.  But  we  all  know  it  is  not  so,"  she 
nodded  wisely.  Certainly,  if  Nell  were  to  attempt  the  task  of 
preserving  Manon's  early-morning  dreaminess,  here  was  an 
excellent  opportunity  to  start.     Instead,  she  sped  across  the 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  153 

room  to  David;  pulled  imperiously,  desperately  at  his  arm. 
"  David,  I'm  ready  to  go  home  with  you.     Quite  ready." 

But  David  was  not  to  be  beguiled.  He  had  found  in  La 
llorraine  what  had  been  so  poignantly  missing  from  his  life 
since  the  outbreak  of  war.  He  had  re-found  his  Continent. 
She  embodied  all  the  thraldom  of  a  tour  abroad;  all  the  lost 
delights  he  had  described  to  Richard.  Her  looks,  her  voice, 
her  setting,  her  clothes  and  perfume  even;  the  outflung  move- 
ments of  her  long  white  ringed  hands,  her  bits  of  richly  sug- 
gestive reminiscences,  with  ejaculations  given  in  all  languages. 
Sudden  familiarities;  her  exhaustive  and  professional  acquaint- 
ances with  foreign  music,  foreign  artists  and  their  very  ques- 
tionable careers;  of  foreign  cities  —  their  opera-houses  and 
their  royalties;  gossip,  garlic-spiced  and  succulent,  or  else 
melodramatic  and  sonorous  —  her  whole  attitude  towards  life, 
towards  the  ingenue,  towards  David  himself 

He  vowed  afterwards  to  Antonia,  in  ecstatic  gratitude  for  her 
share  in  bringing  him  hither,  that  never  again  while  he  had  the 
freedom  of  the  flat  near  Elgin  Avenue,  would  he  fret  at  island 
limitations.  "  She's  simply  incredible.  When  she  talks,  I 
can  smell  hot  coffee  and  those  jolly  bright  brown  lengths  of 
bread  that  one  plunged  for  at  the  buffet,  arriving  at  Boulogne 
or  Dieppe.  .  .  ." 

"  I'm  glad  you're  happy,  at  least.  My  other  two  introduc- 
tions to  the  party  look  simply  sodden  with  misery.  I  think 
we  must  be  unselfish,  and  get  them  away." 

She  indicated  Nell  and  Samson,  the  former  still  being  enter- 
tained by  Manon ;  the  other,  an  obstinate  misfit  in  the  company 
of  Deb  and  Kennedy. 

Antonia  Verity  was  Cliffe's  only  fixed  territory;  his  spiritual 
headquarters.  He  returned  to  Antonia  after  all  his  zig-zagging 
spurts  of  enthusiasm.  But  Deb  was  his  present  caprice.  He 
took  Deb  with  him  everywhere;  displayed  her  proudly  to  such 
fragments  of  his  circle  as  were  handy;  told  her  all  the  stories 
of  all  his  loves;  telephoned  her  before  and  after  meals;  wrote 
her  long  and  blasphemously  witty  letters,  or  postcards  that 
were  the  scandal  of  Montagu  Hall ;  made  her  free  of  his  home 


154  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

and  his  books  and  his  mother,  teased  her  and  argued  with  her 
and  shocked  her  and  bullied  her  and  —  did  not  make  love  to 
her. 

It  was  an  enervating  existence  —  for  Deb.  There  was  a  pe- 
culiarly flattering  quality  to  Cliffe  Kennedy's  absorption  in 
her,  even  in  its  impermanence.  Other  queens  had  reigned 
.  .  .  other  queens  would  reign. 

She  was  not  in  the  least  infatuated  by  Kennedy,  in  spite  of 
occasional  efforts  to  believe  this  the  cause  of  the  diffused 
glamour  on  all  her  days  and  nights.  His  personality  was  not 
quite  that  of  a  real  man  ...  it  was  a  vivid  tricky  personality 
—  wantonly  elusive  —  wantonly  exacting.  He  had  to  be  for- 
given half  a  hundred  lapses  of  manners  —  even  of  humanity  — 
per  instant.  He  was  a  veritable  lob  of  mischief-making,  un- 
trustworthy, with  not  even  that  one  point  of  reliable  consistency 
of  being  a  law  unto  himself.  No  one  could  ever  hope  to  pin 
him  down  to  any  statement  or  opinion.  Yet,  with  these  traits, 
there  was  nothing  womanish  about  Cliffe  Kennedy.  His  tastes 
were  masculine;  his  language  forcible;  his  brain  elastic  but 
brilliant.  Other  men  —  ordinary  men  —  liked  and  sought  his 
company,  while  deploring  his  fantastic  appearance,  the  leathery 
spider-webbed  face  and  the  two  bits  of  blue  inset  with  the 
vividly  light  effect  of  a  chimney-sweeper's  eyes  among  the 
soot;  his  abandonment  of  yellow  hair;  his  wild  sad  thin  legs 
that  were  like  that  kind  of  poem  which  having  no  end  or  be- 
ginning, straggles  on  and  on  in  various  shapeless  forms  of  in- 
coherence. It  was  a  pity,  with  those  legs,  that  he  should 
favour  so  strongly  the  tweed  knickerbocker  style  of  clothing. 
He  would  have  been  better  suited  by  a  jester's  motley  of  red 
and  yellow,  or  a  picturesque  costume  of  fluttering  rags  and 
slouch  hat  and  knotted  staff.  He  resembled  that  sort  of  con- 
centrated allegory  in  pedestrian  form  which  a  few  years  ago 
meandered  variously  through  novel  and  drama  as  the  Wan- 
derer, the  Pilgrim,  the  Minstrel,  the  Fiddler,  the  Vagabond, 
the  Gypsy,  the  Tramp,  the  Pedlar,  the  Just-Outsider,  the  Never- 
Coming-Quite-in-er.  He  was  the  vanguard  of  that  type  with 
which  Deb  was  presently  to  become  so  familiar  —  the  young 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  155 

male  of  the  transition  period,  who,  perhaps  in  self-defence, 
rose  to  match  the  half-and-half  girl;  young  male  who  required 
neither  extreme  of  mistress  nor  wife,  but  accepted,  in  a  spir- 
itual sense  only,  the  semi-privileges  accorded  him  —  the  licence 
of  speech  confidential  or  witty;  and  temporary  rights  of  ap- 
propriation—  by  unspoken  avowal  that  he  might  be  trusted 
in  all  situations  not  to  transgress  limits;  but  in  return  it  must 
be  clearly  understood  that  he  was  on  his  guard  against  the 
responsibilities  of  wedlock: 

"Shouldn't  we  be  miserable  together,  Deb?"  And  she 
wondered  what  reply  etiquette  dictated  to  this  ardent  declara- 
tion of  no-marriage  in  the  various  forms  it  was  offered  her. 
*'  Please,  I  wasn't  even  trying  .  .  ."  occurred  to  her  as  the 
likeliest. 

Amongst  the  tricks  of  this  twentieth-century  style  of  liaison 
was  a  totally  unembarrassed  delight  in  hoodwinking  such  of 
the  older  generation  who  still  took  propinquity  at  its  face 
value,  to  the  belief  that  the  two  concerned  were  indeed  formally 
engaged ;  wantonly  depositing  raw  material  for  scandal,  where 
it  would  be  easiest  picked  up  by  the  person  for  whom  intended. 

Cliffe  was  enchanted  when  Deb  reported  to  him  grandfather's 
indelicate  enquires  re  that  young  Kennedy's  prospects  and 
declarations;  or  sentimental  Trudchen  Redbury's  eagerness 
to  discover  when  congratulations  might  be  allowed  to  cast  off 
their  decent  veilings,  and  appear  on  the  doorstep  in  the  form 
of  a  large  basket  of  flowers,  white  and  pink.  He  even  insisted 
on  propping  up  all  such  suspicion  by  escorting  Deb  to  a  formal 
Sunday  afternoon  call  at  the  Redburys.  "  Und  nun,"  Trudchen 
babbled  to  her  husband,  as  Cliffe's  decorous  top-hat  passed 
up  the  street  in  devoted  juxtaposition  with  Deb's  best  white 
fox  furs  — "  it  may  at  any  moment  .  .  .  how  happy  the  dear 
Stella  will  be!" 

Ferdie  and  Stella,  true  to  resolve,  put  no  direct  questions  to 
Deb.  The  child  was  enjoying  herself  .  .  .  she  was  always 
out  —  that  affirmed  enjoyment.  Stella  was  as  rapacious  of 
Deb's  conquests  as  though  her  own  sterile  girlhood  were  thus 
being  avenged.  ...  A  gleam  of  triumph  shot  from  her  narrow 


156  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

dark  eyes  in  the  direction  of  Hermann  Marcus,  as  Deb  indif- 
ferently thwarted  his  industrious  research.  Here,  at  all  events, 
the  despot  had  no  powers  of  destruction.  Ferdie's  lenience 
rose  from  different  motives.  He  prided  himself  on  his  lack 
of  insistence  that  each  succeeding  episode  should  result  in  an 
eventual  son-in-law.  Plenty  of  time  —  plenty  of  time.  His 
little  Deb  was  flirting  .  .  .  only  natural!  The  younger  gen- 
eration governed  themselves  by  new  laws;  how  imlawful  these 
laws  Ferdie  was  happily  ignorant.  According  to  him,  if  "  it 
did  not  come  off,"  then  either  ope  of  the  pair  was  indifferent 
to  the  other's  love,  or  else  they  were  "  just  good  friends,  nothing 
more  " —  no  reason  why  a  man  and  a  girl  should  not  be  com- 
rades, in  these  enlightened  days.  But  that  any  working  ar- 
rangement could  exist  whereby  passion  was  deliberately  and 
even  verbally  harnessed  with  comradeship,  and  held  in  check, 
and  given  rein,  and  expelled  again  —  no,  that  certainly  never 
occurred  to  Ferdie  Marcus.  His  outlook  was  just  half  a  gen- 
eration ahead  of  his  own;  half  a  generation  behind  his  daugh- 
ter's. Deb,  in  a  sort  of  wilful  despair  at  her  vain  search 
for  control  and  supervision  either  from  the  authority  she 
would  have  been  quick  enough  to  defy,  or  by  some  innermost 
spiritual  compass  she  lacked.  Deb  went  where  she  pleased, 
in  what  company  she  pleased,  at  what  hours  she  pleased; 
rubbed  her  spirit  in  pioneer  literature,  pioneer  drama  and 
pioneer  discussion,  till  it  was  mournfully  sterile  of  glamour  or 
amazement;  and  for  some  inexplicable  reason,  played  up  to 
all  assumptions  on  the  part  of  the  Studio  gang,  that  she  was 
even  as  they  were  in  experience  of  sin  .  .  .  only  it  was  not 
the  fashion  to  call  it  sin,  except  when  the  term  was  used 
humorously.  Not  one  of  them,  girl  or  man,  would  have  be- 
lieved Deb,  had  she  chosen  suddenly  to  discard  her  pose  of 
sophistication.  She  had  experimented  just  enough  for  this  — 
no  more.  Her  passionate  little  face,  poised  on  its  thick  column 
of  neck;  the  heavy  lids  that  were  never  quite  drawn  back 
from  her  eyes;  slow-smiling  mouth,  the  rich  blood  veiled  by 
skin  crinkled  and  transparent  as  poppy-petals  in  the  sun-rays; 
above  all,  a  quality  in  each  supple  movement  she  made,  which 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  157 

a  dancer  once  defined  as  "  limb-consciousness  " —  combined  to 
uphold  that  lie  which  vanity  in  her  had  started. 

"What  can  it  matter  —  my  life  is  my  own  affair!  "  thus 
Deb,  who  hoped  hers  was  a  wayward  soul,  and  knew  it  was 
merely  slipshod.  .  .  . 

What  can  it  matter?  —  why,  nothing  had  mattered  much 
since  she  had  kissed  Burton  Ames  .  .  .  and  he  had  been  called 
away  to  the  telephone.  She  had  broken  bounds  then  .  .  . 
entered  on  forbidden  country.  Of  what  avail  afterwards  to 
turn  arid  crawl  tamely  back  through  the  gap,  resume  an  exist- 
ence where  girls  did  not  cheapen  themselves? 

If  he  had  made  it  worth  while  ...  he  had  not  made  it 
worth  while,  or  worth  anything.  One  had  heard  of  girls  who, 
disappointed  in  love,  had  flung  themselves  headlong  "  to  the 
bad."  Deb  did  not  do  that.  She  merely  meandered  bad- 
wards;  her  steps,  like  those  of  a  very  intricate  dance,  advancing 
and  retreating  with  sideway  darts  and  curvetings  and  inex- 
plicable rushes  for  cover  and  sudden  boldness  ...  all  the 
haphazard  eff^ect,  to  an  onlooker,  of  a  dance  without  the  ac- 
companying inspiration  of  music.  But  the  onlooker  could  not 
have  guessed  that  Deb  had  seen  Jenny  die  with  all  the  eager- 
ness of  her  being  unfulfilled,  baulked.  .  .  . 

*'  I  never  knew  it  was  so  easy  to  die  —  while  one  still  wanted 
things  as  much.     One  must  take  —  take  —  and  take  quickly !  " 

She  was  wont  to  tell  Clifi'e  of  her  adventures  and  escapes 
on  Debatable  Ground.  He  listened  with  proprietary  zest,  and 
many  oaths  of  secrecy.  And  then  betrayed  her  to  Antonia 
or  Zoe  or  Timothy  —  whomever  the  object  of  his  next  mo- 
mentary death-or-nothing  spasm  of  intimacy.  Deb,  following 
after,  cleared  up  the  litter  of  her  character,  agreed  with  An- 
tonia or  Zoe  or  Timothy  that  Cliffe  was  simply  impossible 
and  deserved  to  be  forthwith  discarded  .  .  .  and  then  went  off 
with  him  for  the  week-end  to  his  country  cottage  near  Wycombe. 

No  —  that  was  how  Kennedy  himself  would  have  described 
the  incident.  As  a  matter  of  fact  she  went  with  him  for  the 
Saturday,  as  she  had  often  done  before,  and  they  were  to 
return  in  time  for  supper  at  Zoe's  flat,  where  Deb  had  arranged 


158  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

to  stay  for  what  was  left  of  the  night,  because  it  was  easier 
just  to  roll  over  on  to  the  sofa  in  the  sitting-room,  than  to 
worry  about  busses  or  trains  to  South  Kensington.  She  was 
shedding  the  fundamental  home-instinct  that  the  black  hours 
must  necessarily  be  spent  in  one's  bedroom  with  all  accom- 
panying accessories  of  property.  Really,  once  the  sacred  cus- 
tom was  broken,  one  could  tumble  to  sleep  anywhere;  at  an 
inn,  or  on  a  divan  with  two  or  three  other  girls,  or  —  in  hot 
weather  —  out  of  doors.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  had  grown  lax  over 
the  geography  of  her  nights.  It  was  easy  enough  to  'phone 
Aimt  Stella  and  say:  "I'm  staying  with  so-and-so  till  to- 
morrow." "Very  well,  child  —  have  a  good  time."  Stella 
supposed  that  so-and-so  had  a  spare  bedroom,  and  could  lend 
Deb  a  nightgown.  Gradually  Deb  trained  them  not  to  worry 
even  if  she  omitted  to  'phone  her  whereabouts;  a  'phone  was 
not  always  handy  — "  You'll  know  I'm  all  right." 

And  all  this  —  for  nothing  at  all.  The  girl's  behaviour, 
submitted  to  the  essential  interrogation,  was  as  orthodox  as 
her  circumstances  might  be  the  reverse.  That  night  at  Sea- 
view  for  instance  —  the  sea  was  entirely  a  matter  of  fiction, 
but  Cliffe  insisted  that  such  a  name  must  shed  a  disguise  of 
Philistine  respectability  over  any  dwelling.  It  was  not  even 
the  dramatically  inevitable  outcome  of  a  swiftly  discovered 
passion  setting  them  aflame  and  beyond  all  reason  and  remem- 
brance; or  else  to  be  explained  by  a  set  of  automatic  coinci- 
dences, such  as  misunderstanding  with  the  rest  of  the  party, 
or  a  faulty  time-table  or  a  fog.  Certainly  it  was  raining  rather 
drearily;  and  Cliffe  declared  that  the  prospect  of  Zoe  and  her 
surrounding  aura  of  Soho  waiters  and  impresarios  and  maca- 
roni-merchants rendered  him  faint  with  boredom  .  .  .  and 
they  were  having  rather  a  jolly  talk  about  something-or-other 
.  .  .  and  there  was  plenty  of  cold-stuff  supper  in  the  larder. 
.  .  .  And  Deb  was  in  a  sort  of  fancy  dress  —  she  had  discarded 
her  wet  and  muddy  tweed  skirt  for  a  pair  of  white  knickers  of 
Cliffe's,  which,  with  her  own  loose  red-bordered  white  serge 
sailor  smock,  gave  her  the  look  of  a  trim  and  dashing  principal 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  159 

boy  in  pantomime.  She  disliked  the  bother  of  resuming  her 
skirt  again. 

"  Oh,  well,  let's  stop  on  here,"  said  ClifFe  impatiently. 
"  Why  do  I  pay  a  high  rent  if  not  to  be  able  to  talk  quietly 
with  a  pal  now  and  then,  without  interruption?  " 

"  Five-and-six  a  week,  isn't  it?  "  Deb  indolently  let  lapse 
the  question  of  their  imminent  return. 

"  Six-and-six.     And  cheap  at  that." 

"  I  suppose  the  baby-farm  next  door  reduces  the  price. 
They  do  seem  to  make  more  noise  than  ordinary  home-babies." 

ClifTe  grinned.  "  The  landlord  tried  to  argue  that  out  as  a 
special  convenience  .  .  .  '  So  handy  just  to  drop  it  over  the 
wall!'" 

"  When  you  first  mentioned  your  country  cottage  to  me, 
ClifFe,  I  pictured  it  with  a  thatched  roof  and  an  orchard  and 
roses  round  the  door." 

"  '  Make  me  love  mother  more,'  "  he  hummed.  "  Curious 
psychological  effect  some  vegetation  seems  to  have!  But  what 
a  hopelessly  conventional  imagination  is  yours,  Deborah.  Is 
it  likely  I'd  be  found  dead  in  one  of  those  old-fashioned  traps 
for  sentiment  and  earwigs?  Seaview  is  a  futurist  conception 
of  what  a  country  cottage  ought  to  be,  in  its  stark,  splendid 
ugliness." 

Seaview  was  a  yellow-brick  workman's  house,  standing  in  a 
row  with  five  others  of  the  same  build  .  .  .  bare  of  ornamenta- 
tion, and  with  the  straight  road  to  High  Wycombe  directly 
outside  the  door. 

Deb  balanced  one  bare  tan  leg  across  the  knee  of  the  other, 
clasped  her  slim  ankle  caressingly,  and  dangled  a  caked  and 
clammy  stocking  near  the  fire,  which,  with  the  reckless  squan- 
dering of  much  paraflSn,  Cliffe  had  at  last  wheedled  to  a  ruddy 
pyramid. 

"  I  wish  you  hadn't  tramped  me  through  all  the  sploshiest 
fields,  Cliflfe." 

"'Where  there  are  cows  there  is  dung!  ' — simple  Russian 
proverb,"  he  replied  sententiously.     "  I'm  compiling  a  book 


160  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

of  them.     Besides,   you  shouldn't  have  forgotten  your   um- 
brella." 

"  I've  never  had  an  umbrella.  .  .  .  Think  of  it  —  never  a 
little  umbrella  of  my  own  —  and  sometimes  my  arms  are  empty 
—  oh,  so  empty.  ...  I  have  to  watch  other  women  dandling 
their  umbrellas  .  .  .  and  wonder  why  such  happiness  should 
have  been  denied  just  to  me.  Sometimes,  at  night,  I  dream 
that  I  have,  after  all,  one  dear  little  golden-headed  umbrella 
.  .  .  and  then  I  wake  up  to  find  it  all  a  dream  —  all  a  dream  — 
perhaps  I  shall  never  have  an  lunbrella  now  .  .  ."  Mourn- 
fully she  wriggled  her  toes  down  into  the  foot  of  her  stocking. 
He  watched  her  from  his  sprawling,  posture  on  the  horsehair 
sofa,  and  smiled.  .  .  . 

"  Highly  improper  conversation.  .  .  .  Wonder  if  Samson 
Phillips  would  approve  of  it?  Does  he  still  write  you  those 
compromising  letters  about  running  brooks  and  Ella  Wheeler 
Wilcox?  " 

"  Every  Friday.  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  sounds  like  an  oath, 
the  way  you  say  it." 

He  swung  himself  upright,  striking  the  pillow-sausage  with 
his  fist.  "  It  is  an  oath.  Yes,  I  might  have  been  a  good  man 
if  some  confiding  aunt  hadn't  roused  my  worst  passions  by  a 
gift  of  those  eleven  white,  innocent-looking  vellum  volumes. 
.  .  .  'And  they  were  wed  on  a  horsehair  bed,  and  the  dying 
day  was  their  priest.'  Deb,  would  Samson  Philips  consider 
the  dying  day  an  adequate  priest  for  you  and  me?  " 

"  I'll  ask  him  if  you  like.     I'm  a  privileged  person  with 
Samson;    he   used   to   kiss-in-the-ring   with   me   at   children's 
parties  —  a  very  serious  young  man  unbending  to  play  with  the 
little  ones  —  and  acquired  a  taste  for  me  that  way." 
Cliffe  hummed : 

"  Now  that  you're  married  we  wish  you  joy 
First  a  girl  and  then  a  boy  — 
Seven  years  after  comes  son  and  daughter  — 
Come,  young  couple,  and  kiss  one  another." 

He  repeated  the  last   line  softly  .  .  .  and   a   funny   little 
smile  pranced  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth.     "  Is  the  game 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  161 

old-fashioned,   Deb,  for   present   company?     Here  you   are, 

hopelessly  compromised  —  entirely  at  my  mercy " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Much  too  old-fashioned !  "  but  was 
nevertheless  not  quite  sure  how  far  the  jocund  spirit  held  sway. 
.  .  .  There  was  an  element  of  primitive  commonplace  in  man 
which  baffled  all  her  utmost  powers  of  histrionics  —  and  she 
knew  it;  expecting  its  most  unexpected  appearances.  When 
the  invariable  happened,  she  had  hitherto  been  able  to  cope 
with  it  in  all  its  forms  so  triumphantly  as  to  surprise  even 
herself  —  using  alternatively  the  weapons  of  pure  wonderment, 
appeal  to  good  comradeship,  elfin  irony,  pathos  of  reminis- 
cence. ...  So  far,  she  had  had  better  luck  than  she  deserved. 
But  each  averted  peril  left  her  a  little  wearier  of  wayside 
incident,  a  little  more  restless  for  the  good  thing  which  brought 
rest. 

And  now  —  Cliffe.  Or  was  it  merely  her  fancy  that  his  eyes 
threatened?  Even  Cliffe,  whose  apparently  happy  sexlessness 
had  been  a  subject  of  such  absorbing  debate  between  herself 
and  Antonia  and  Zoe.  Cliffe  —  even  Cliffe  —  God's  under- 
study, who  brought  lovers  together  for  his  whimsy  and  parted 
them  for  caprice;  and  whom  no  girl  of  them  had  caught  in 
lover  mood  himself  —  Even  Cliffe  —  but  he  was  a  stranger  to 
her  now,  as  they  all  were,  the  friendliest,  when  this  thing 
touched  to  life  some  fundamental  antagonism. 

"  Behind  the  times,  am  I?  Well,  try  the  new  way,  then. 
Advanced  theory,  and  all  that,  .  .  .  We  don't  love  each  other, 
but  let  us  experiment  in  life's  stuff.  We  may  .  .  .  please 
each  other  without  loving.  Why  not?  The  Youth  of  today 
refuses  to  squander  itself  in  unsubstantial  dreamings.  Here 
am  I  —  here  are  you  —  brilliant  young  intellectuals.  Eugenics 
—  and  all  that!  Likewise,  we  are  quite  crudely  frank  about 
our  respective  pasts;  and  render  it  fully  clear  that  we  have 
no  intention  of  making  claims  on  sentiment  or  responsibility 
beyond  the  present  hour.  And  I  am  cynically  epigrammatic 
about  marriage,  and  you  are  fairly  amusing  about  chastity. 
And  then,  let  me  see  —  yes  —  then  we  become  serious  and 
rather  subtle;  introspective  psychology  —  passion  and  its  ef- 


162  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

feet  on  the  individual  temperament. —  God!  deliver  me  from 
this  modern  fashion  of  erotic  promiscuity  masquerading  as 
Repertory  Ethics!  Give  me  instead  the  old-fashioned  black- 
guard and  the  out-of-date  village  maiden  —  and  they'll  play  me 
a  decenter  scene  than  ever  achieved  by  all  this  twentieth- 
century  tangle-talk.  Deb  —  I  know  a  man  and  a  girl  who 
consented  to  humour  the  State  and  get  married  for  no  better 
reason  than  because  they  had  saved  up  the  price  of  a  divorce, 
to  put  in  the  bank  —  a  sort  of  emergency  exit.  And  they  asked 
me  to  admire  their  hideous  sanity.  *  We'll  take  each  other  for 
better,'  the  man  sniggered  — '  but  why  insist  that  two  human 
beings  should  take  each  other  for  worse?  '  smug  fool  —  as 
though  his  beastly  Marriage  on  a  Reasonable  Basis  were  worth 
while,  anticipating  dreariness  and  weariness  and  satiety.  To 
go  in  for  it  gallantly,  with  hope  and  a  ray  of  idealism  —  that's 
marriage  on  a  reasonable  basis.  But  this  fellow  asked  me  to 
admire  him.  .  .  ." 

"Now,  I  wonder  what  you  said  to  him  to  dispel  that  illu- 
sion? "  Deb  was  quite  serene  and  comfortable  again  now  that 
ClifFe  was  making  speeches.  He  could  be  reckoned  to  go  on 
for  hours,  his  out-thrust  chin  propped  on  his  clenched  fists. 
She  suspected  he  might  be  equally  wrathful  and  eloquent 
had  he  chosen  to  hold  forth  in  defence  instead  of  in  condemna- 
tion of  his  subject.     But  still  .  .  . 

"  People  think,  because  there's  a  war  on,  it  ought  to  reduce 
the  human  psychology  to  a  state  of  beautiful  rustic  Big  Sim- 
plicity. .  .  .  '  We  have  no  time  for  minute  dissections  of  idea 

in  these  times  when '     Idiots!     Windbags!     As  if  war 

itself  —  now  —  were  a  beautiful  rustic  simple  Big  thing. 
Everything's  complex  to  a  verge  of  lunacy  —  it's  the  tendency 
of  evolution  —  war  and  peace  and  character  and  morality  — 
The  war  hasn't  made  a  halfpenny-worth  of  difference  —  only 
a  khaki  embrace  gives  a  fictitious  impression  of  bluff  man- 
liness. .  .  .  Complexity  is  raging  everywhere  beneath  the  sur- 
face layer  of  uniform,  just  the  same  —  just  the  same.  We're 
all  victims  to  it  —  you.  Deb,  and  I,  Deb.  And  the  immediate 
tormenting  question  of  me  and  you  ...  we  don't  love  each 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  163 

other,  do  we?  You  who  know  too  much  and  have  done  too 
little?  — do  we?" 

He  rose  to  his  gaunt  height,  and  pressed  his  large  hands  on 
her  shoulders,  and  stood  looking  down  upon  her  .  .  .  she 
wriggled  a  trifle  uneasily.  There  was  monotony  in  this  pro- 
cession of  negative  wooings,  and  she  would  have  welcomed  a 
change.  It  might  perhaps  have  been  possible  to  care  for 
ClifTe  —  if  he  had  not  damped  her  ardour  by  presupposing  the 
contrary.  If  he  had  made  love  to  her  .  .  .  love,  like  the 
threshold  of  a  dim  yet  familiar  garden  fresh  with  the  night- 
breath  of  drenched  petals 

And  instead  they  were  ruling  her  round  with  geometrical 
lines  and  angles  —  theories!  She  raised  her  dragging  white 
eyelids  and  looked  up  at  him  with  an  intimate  appeal  for  the 
garden  .  .  .  the  garden  back  again.  .  .  . 

His  face  grew  suddenly  stern. 

"  Go  up  to  bed,  child  —  I'm  going  for  a  walk  on  the  Com- 
mon   " 

But  he  did  not  remove  his  hands  —  till,  swooping,  he  kissed 
her  gently  on  the  forehead.  And  strode  abruptly  out  of  the 
front  door  into  the  dark  dripping  road. 

An  uncanny  familiarity  about  his  action  ...  a  detached 
feeling  of  having  once  been  the  spectator  —  then  Deb  re- 
membered. She  had  seen  Cliffe  treat  Antonia  in  exactly  the 
same  way.  It  was  his  celebrated  Kiss  of  Renunciation,  as 
performed  before  all  the  Crowned  Heads  of  Europe.  .  .  . 


w 


CHAPTER  IV 


^'  ^  ^  7"HY  didn't  you  turn  up  last  night?  "  demanded  Zoe 
Dene-Cresswell,  stepping  in  and  out  of  her  tiny 
kitchen  in  a  whirlwind  effort  to  prepare  dinner 
for  Pinto,  keep  "  Quelle  Vie,"  the  King  Charles  spaniel,  from 
the  sitting-room  cushions,  entertain  Antonia  Verity  with  an 
account  of  her  latest  incredible  adventure,  and  illustrate  how 
she  would  play  her  new  part  for  the  Andrea  Film  Co.  There 
was  some  reason  —  connected  with  the  King  Charles,  or  per- 
haps with  keeping  the  draught  from  the  stove,  or  it  was  it  an 
amorous  Italian  gas-fitter  who  was  not  to  know  she  was  at 
home? — which  rendered  it  imperative  that  doors  should  be 
perpetually  opened  and  shut  as  she  dashed  from  room  to 
room;  and  as  there  were  more  doors  than  sanity  could  find 
reason  for  in  the  fourth  floor  flat  in  Soho,  Deb  was  inhospitably 
received  by  a  gale  of  three  separate  slams,  and  was  compelled 
to  make  an  informal  entrance  through  the  bedroom.  All  the 
rooms  led  into  one  another,  like  a  flat  in  farce;  and,  like  a  flat 
in  farce,  the  frequent  cupboard  doors  were  constructed  suffi- 
ciently like  the  others  to  trap  a  headlong  fugitive  into  enforced 
concealment;  and  most  parts  of  the  wall  disconcertingly  flew 
open  at  a  touch. 

"  It's  all  right,  Zoe  —  only  Deb,"  Antonia  called  into  the 
kitchen. 

"  What  did  you  do  with  Cliff e  last  night?  "  Zoe  piped  shrilly. 
**  Such  a  perfectly  awful  thing  happened  here  —  I  must  tell 
you " 

"  We  stayed  on  at  Seaview,  and  only  came  up  this  morning 
—  down,  Quelle  Vie!  — Zoe,  she's  eating  the  radishes!  " 

"  Shove  her  into  the  bathroom,"  indistinctly  from  Zoe,  en- 

164 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  165 

veloped  in  a  cloud  of  steam.     "  My  dear,  a  simply  awful  thing 
— I  was  just  telling  Antonia " 


"  Here,  you  bulgy -eyed  little  brute " 

With  a  squeal  Zoe  darted  out  of  the  kitchen  mists  and 
stopped  Deb  and  the  spaniel  at  the  very  threshold  of  the  bath- 
room. 

"  Come  away  —  I  forgot.  Benvenuto's  in  there  —  little 
Carlo  from  the  '  Napoli ' —  you  know.     He's  having  a  bath." 

"Why?" 

"How  should  I  knew  why? — he  looked  fairly  all  right 
from  the  top  —  but  the  poor  little  fellow  begged  me  with  the 
tears  in  his  eyes  —  he  hasn't  got  one  in  his  flat  —  and  they're 
so  particular  at  the  Napoli  —  I  couldn't  refuse  him,  could  I, 
Deb?  He  might  lose  his  job.  Besides,  he's  such  a  little  gen- 
tleman at  heart  —  listen  to  him  splashing  so  that  he  shouldn't 
have  to  hear  what  I'm  saying?  I  like  that,  don't  you,  Deb?  It 
shows  nice  feeling.  And  of  course,  he  couldn't  lock  the  door 
because  it  doesn't  lock.  You  might  have  walked  right  in  and 
how  would  he  have  felt  then?  The  landlord  never  left  me  the 
key,  and  I  can't  ask  him  for  special  favours  because  he's  so 
crazy  about  me  he  might  take  advantage  —  common  little  sand- 
worm  —  I  was  just  telling  Antonia " 

"  I  would  hardly  call  it  a  special  favour  to  ask  for  the  key 
of  your  bathroom  door."  Antonia's  voice,  soft  and  amused, 
dropped  like  cool  respite  in  Zoe's  loud  insistent  gabble. 

Zoe's  conversational  ability  was  a  Juggernaut  to  her  friends ; 
it  rolled  on  and  on,  destroying  in  its  eternal  passage  those  rash 
victims  who  hurled  themselves  beneath  the  wheels.  Nothing 
could  stop  its  course,  not  night  nor  anguish,  nor  the  kettle 
boiling  over,  nor  the  tailor's  family  doing  murder  on  the  land- 
ing below.  It  could  not  be  ignored,  nor  suffered  as  accom- 
paniment to  other  deeds.  It  claimed  hypnotized  attention, 
and  by  a  perpetual  insertion  of  "didn't  I?  "  "  well,  don't  you 
agree?  "  "What  do  you  think?  "  exacted  response,  and  ex- 
acting, passed  over  and  crushed  it. 

And  yet  she  was  such  a  jolly  little  person,  with  a  wide-eyed 
tip-tilted  air  of  a  seraphim  just  introduced  into  the  Cafe  Royal 


166  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

and  anxious  to  get  the  hang  of  the  place;  tumbled  silvery  curls; 
and  sleeves  now  rolled  up  to  show  a  plump  allure  of  forearm 
and  elbow. 

"  Pinto  is  coming  to  supper,  we've  got  to  make  up  a  quarrel, 
which  means  that  he'll  throw  the  furniture  about,  especially 
if  his  crab  salad  isn't  just  right,  so  I  simply  can't  come  in  and 
talk  to  you,  girls,  but  I  can  hear  you  quite  well,  so  do  go  on 
telling  about  ClifFe,  Deb;  was  he  almost  human?  I  mean, 
did  he  make  love  to  you?  don't  say  he  did  ...  I  like  having 
ClifFe  about  the  flat  to  remind  myself  that  a  man  exists  who 
can  walk,  breathe  and  eat  and  wash  himself  quite  nicely,  like 
other  men  —  and  yet  not  want  to  kiss  me.  He  doesn't,  you 
know  —  it's  so  funny,  isn't  it,  Antonia?  It  never  seems  to 
strike  him.  I've  sat  on  the  arm  of  his  chair  and  pouted  at  him, 
and  stroked  his  head,  and  told  him  how  lonely  and  miserable 
I  was,  and  how  Pinto  had  left  me  for  good  and  it's  so  hard 
for  a  girl  alone,  and  I've  rubbed  off  all  the  lip  salve  because 
he  doesn't  like  it,  and  drawn  his  attention  to  the  fact  —  and 
still  it  doesn't  seem  to  strike  him.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if  some- 
thing is  broken  inside  him  —  No,  I  don't  mean  '  Wear  one  of 
Our  Belts  and  lift  the  Grand  Piano '  sort  of  thing  —  I  meant 
a  kind  of  moral  spring.  Because  even  the  post-office  man 
round  the  corner  —  it's  perfectly  awful  —  he's  simply  crazy 
about  me,  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do,  because  one  must  have 
stamps,  mustn't  one?  I  never  dreamt  he  felt  like  that  about 
me  till  yesterday  when  I  went  in  to  phone,  and  he  pretended 
the  penny-box  was  out  of  order,  and  came  in  to  help  me,  and 
—  well,  tliere  I  was  in  the  dark  alone  with  him,  and  he  was 
whispering  in  one  ear  about  every  part  of  me  separately  — 
really  appreciative,  I  must  say  —  and  Timothy  Fawcett  bawling 
*  Hello  '  from  the  other  end  into  my  right  ear  —  What  was  I 
to  do?     I  didn't  know  men  were  like  that,  did  you.  Deb?  " 

"  There  was  no  marked  change  for  the  worse  in  Cliffe's 
behaviour,"  Deb  replied  to  Zoe's  question  of  ten  minutes  ago. 
"  In  fact,  it  was  depressingly  like  spending  the  night  with  one's 
great-aunt.  He  sent  me  up  to  bed  at  a  quarter  to  ten,  and  then 
went  for  a  short  walk  in  the  rain " 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  167 

"  Wrestling  with  his  evil  passions,  I  hope  —  oh,  Deb,  do  say 
he  was  wrestling,  and  that  his  better  self  prevailed  in  the 
end." 

"  It  must  have,  because  I  saw  no  more  of  him  till  he  banged 
at  my  door  with  a  morning  carol,  and  no  hot  water.  And  I 
didn't  know  men  were  like  that,  did  you,  Zoe?  .  .  ." 

Antonia  said :  "  ClifFe  will  revise  the  episode,  bind  it,  and 
illustrate  it,  with  a  preface,  and  additional  notes,  and  altera- 
tions in  the  original  text " 

"  Oh,  I'm  prepared  to  meet  it  again,  looking  like  Ophelia 
dressed  by  Paquin  for  the  mad-scene.  He'll  boom  it  for  a 
fortnight,  and  then  forget  it.  Cliffe  never  bothers  to  prop  up 
his  lies,  once  he's  tired  of  them ;  he  lets  them  crawl  about  and 
go  bad." 

"And  then  sometimes  he  remembers,  and  picks  them  up 
again  in  a  very  enfeebled  condition,  and  coaxes  them  to  take 
a  little  nourishment." 

"  What  I  want  to  know,"  Zoe  clattered  in  with  an  assortment 
of  plates,  knives  and  forks,  "  is  how  much  he  believes  in  them 
himself?  " 

Antonia  expressed  her  opinion  that  he  believed  in  them 
altogether;  was  possessed  of  an  illimitable  imagination  which 
did  not  timidly  boggle  at  fact  or  possibility,  but  soared  in 
ascending  spirals  of  ecstasy  to  a  heaven  wherein  as  he  spoke 
them  all  things  were. 

"  Well,  what  I  say  is  that  it's  all  very  well  when  he's  just 
creating  people  that  don't  exist,  to  fill  a  gap  in  the  conversation, 
or  to  point  a  moral,  or  draw  attention  to  himself.  But  he's 
dangerous  when  he  prods  about  for  material  about  his  friends. 
The  things  he's  said  about  me.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  you,  Zoe !  "  Antonia  affectionately  ruffled  the  other 
girl's  hair.  "  You  outstep  even  Cliff e's  genius !  Have  the 
good  people  on  these  premises  been  warned  about  the  curse 
you  bring?  " 

For  Zoe  carried  about  with  her  an  atmosphere  of  sensational 
happenings  —  police-court  happenings.  When  she  moved  into 
new  quarters,  they  were  bound  presently  to  be  the  scene  of  a 


168  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

murder  with  some  novel  attendant  features;  or  a  burglary  on 
a  particularly  large  scale;  or  a  police-raid  would  reveal  the 
premises  to  be  a  house  of  lurid  ill-fame;  or  a  criminal  would 
be  found  taking  refuge.  .  .  .  And  in  all  these  violent  happen- 
ings, Zoe,  wide-eyed  as  ever  and  volubly  innocent,  somehow 
contrived  to  take  the  stage  as  a  central  figure;  she  it  was  who 
all  unsuspecting  had  inspired  the  Polish  barrow-vendor  with 
the  passion  which  had  aroused  his  wife's  homicidal  frenzy; 
she  who  had  detained  the  master-burglar  —  God  only  knows 
how!  — while  the  police  were  being  stealthily  summoned;  she 
whom  the  procureuse  on  the  first  floor  had  essayed  to  tempt 
into  white  slavery.  ..."  My  dear,  she  thought  I  was  only 
seventeen  and  knew  nothing! "  and  afterwards  testified  the 
same  to  a  genial  and  admiring  magistrate;  she  in  whose  flat 
the  criminal  was  discovered  in  hiding  — "  poor  fellow  —  you 
simply  should  have  seen  how  he  looked  at  me!  " 

So,  like  a  Banshee  visiting  a  parvenu  Irish  family  who  didn't 
even  know  they  had  one,  Zoe  was  now  dwelling  above  a 
gradation  of  Jewish  tailors  —  a  tailor  and  his  family  to  each 
floor  —  all  in  feud  with  one  another.  Clifi^e  Kennedy  foretold 
an  imminent  pogrom  as  being  novel  and  appropriate  to  her 
present  surroundings.  Zoe's  subsequent  description  of  events 
were  always  a  delight  to  her  audiences  —  and  to  herself;  for 
though  she  pretended  to  extreme  indignation  at  her  victimage, 
yet  no  doubt  but  that  her  vanity  was  elated  at  being  so  con- 
spicuously selected  for  the  limelight. 

It  was  during  these  narratives,  animated  by  a  complete 
pantomime  of  imitation,  that  a  quality  in  Zoe  which  usually 
puzzled  by  its  intangibility  was  washed  broadly  to  the  surface 
—  a  quality  of  eighteenth-century  coarse  heartiness,  a  fleshy 
stridency  recalling  the  pictures  of  Hogarth.  .  .  . 

Zoe  read  mostly  of  the  Smollett,  Fielding,  Richardson  and 
Sterne  period.  She  had  an  odd  liking  for  Dr.  Johnson  and  also 
for  Dan  Chaucer.  The  latter's  robust  sensuality  appealed  to 
her.  Though  she  often  aped  the  loveable  baby,  she  was  a 
shrewd  little  body,  well  qualified  to  look  after  herself  and  to 
deal  with  her  swarming  adorers,  of  whom  at  least  half  as  many 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  169 

existed  in  reality  as  in  her  rollicking  fancy.  Competent,  too, 
at  cooking  and  housekeeping  —  Pinto  had  seen  to  that. 

Pinto  was  a  bad-tempered  and  highly  respectable  Portuguese 
gentleman  of  means,  who  was  engaged  to  marry  Zoe.  They 
had  been  engaged  four  years  already,  and  although  Zoe  did 
not  allow  his  formal  proprietorship  to  interfere  with  her  more 
enjoyable  activities,  yet  the  inexplicable  freak  of  her  love  for 
Pinto  admitted  of  no  contradiction.  He  bullied  her,  and  she 
was  abject;  he  sulked,  and  she  wooed  him  with  succulent 
dishes;  he  shouted  at  her,  and  she  was  silent;  he  had  tooth- 
ache, and  she  wept.  Her  life  was  a  perpetual  scamper  to  clear 
her  premises  of  their  illegitimate  riff-raff  before  the  arrival  of 
Pinto;  for  she  was  essentially  "bonne  gosse,"  and  could  no 
more  have  refused  one  man  her  kiss,  and  another  her  company, 
than  now  her  bathroom  to  Benvenuto  the  oboe-player. 

Pinto  was  not  a  favourite  among  Zoe's  friends;  and  hearing 
that  he  was  momentarily  expected.  Deb  and  Antonia  rose  to  go. 

"  Come  any  time  you  like  to  spend  a  night  here.  Deb,  to  make 
up  for  yesterday.  I  love  to  have  you,  and  you  know  the  sofa 
is  comfy  enough.  Antonia,  you  look  such  a  darling  in  your 
khaki,  I've  half  a  mind  to  throw  up  the  movies  and  become  a 
General's  chauffeuse  myself.  I'm  sure  the  dear  old  doddery 
thing  would  simply  adore  me,  don't  you  think  he  would?  I 
could  perch  on  his  knee  and  pull  his  whiskers  when  I  wasn't 
driving  him  to  Headquarters.  I've  really  thought  lately  of 
doing  war-work,  haven't  you.  Deb?  I  know  some  one  who 
said  he  could  get  me  a  job  at  the  Admiralty." 

"Heaven  forbid!  "  Antonia  cried  in  horror;  "Do  remem- 
ber that  as  a  nation  we  rely  above  all  on  our  command  of  the 
seas.  To  have  the  Admiralty  demoralized  into  a  Palais  Royale 
burlesque  of  banging  doors  and  everybody  helter-skelter  after 
everybody  else.  .  .  .  Prove  your  patriotism  and  stop  where 
you  are,  Zoe!  it's  safer.  And  I  won't  have  my  Major-General 
tampered  with  either,"  she  added  demurely;  "He's  not  much 
over  forty  and  very  good-looking." 

Zoe  sighed:  "You  are  lucky;  there's  nothing  you  couldn't 
do  with  that  irresistible  peak  to  your  cap.  .  .  .  But  1  really 


170  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

should  be  sorry  to  chuck  up  the  part  I'm  rehearsing;  it's  a 
tremendously  fascinating  plot,  and  so  simple.  I  must  tell  you : 
The  boyish  hero  Jim  falls  in  love  with  Dolores,  a  wild  Spanish- 
gipsy  sort  of  woman  much  older  than  he  is,  and  mar- 
ries her.  She  gets  tired  of  him,  and  runs  away  with  some- 
thing debonair  called  Raoul,  and  they  have  a  child  and 
Dolores  dies.  Seventeen  years  later  Jim  meets  the  child  and 
adopts  her  and  loves  her  and  marries  her  —  and  she  gets 
tired  of  him,  and  runs  away  with  something  debonair  called 
Rene,  and  they  have  a  child,  and  then  get  killed  in  a  circus. 
Years  later  Jim  meets  the  child  and  adopts  her,  loves  her  and 
marries  her,  and  she  gets  tired  of  him,  ...  it  goes  on  like  that 
for  generations,  until  dear  old  Jim  gets  a  little  silver-powdery 
at  the  temples,  but  even  that  doesn't  seem  to  stop  him.  I 
play  the  child  each  time." 

"And  always  the  same  Jim?  The  film  ought  to  be  called 
*  The  Recurring  Decimal,'  "  laughed  Deb.  "  We  must  go  and 
see  it  when  it  comes  on.  'Bye,  Zoe,  I  hear  Pinto's  step  on  the 
ground-floor,  and  Benvenuto's  bath-water  running  away." 

Zoe  flew  to  smother  the  incriminating  oboe-player ;  and  Deb, 
and  Antonia  departed.  On  the  dark  stairs  they  encountered 
Pinto,  puffing  noisily,  and  carrying  a  large  jar  of  olives. 

II 

"  She  will  be  pleased  with  the  olives,"  Pinto  complacently 
informed  himself.  Then  he  tripped  over  a  basin  of  some 
peculiarly  odorous  fish  soaking  in  water,  which  the  First  Tail- 
or's children  had  left  on  the  landing.     His  temper  changed. 

"  She  will  be  overjoyed  —  it  may  be  she  thought  I  had  left 
her  for  always.  Now  I  return  and  I  bring  her  olives.  It  is 
good  of  me.  .  .  ." 

Zoe  did  not  care  for  olives,  but  Pinto  had  overlooked  this 
fact.     He  happened  to  have  a  taste  for  them  himself.  .  .  . 

A  black  figure  shot  past  him  and  downstairs  as  though  dis- 
charged from  a  catapult.     It  was  Benvenuto  the  oboe-player. 

On  the  next  landing,  the  children  of  the  Second  Tailor  came 
out  and  drove  a  hoop  at  Pinto's  legs,  under  the  impression  that 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  171 

he  was  a  kind  gentleman.  He  disabused  them  of  the  notion, 
and  scowling  heavily  and  panting  more  than  ever,  toiled  on. 
It  was  deepest  ingratitude  on  the  part  of  Zoe  to  live  on  the 
fourth  floor. 

The  children  of  the  Third  Tailor  merely  blocked  his  way, 
snuffling  heavily.  Their  sombre  eyes  and  unspoken  speech  was 
that  of  Maeterlinckian  drama:  "We  have  seen  him  be- 
fore. .  .  ."  "  We  have  seen  him  a  great  many  times.  .  .  ." 
"  He  is  seeking  the  princess  in  the  tower-room.  .  .  ."  "  What 
is  it  that  he  holds  in  his  hand  —  I  cannot  tell  —  it  is  so 
dark.  .  .  ."     "  Hush  —  draw  closer.  .  .  ." 

Pinto  had  now  reached  the  topmost  flat,  and  handing  Zoe 
the  olives,  coldly  awaited  her  answering  burst  of  enthusiasm. 
Unfortunately  he  had  so  often  reprimanded  her  for  displays 
of  undue  effervescence,  that  Zoe  limited  her  gratitude  to  a 
meek  "  Thank  you  very  much,  Pinto." 

Pinto  was  aggrieved.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  —  de- 
manded his  dinner ;  reproved  Zoe  for  having  her  sleeves  tucked 
up — ("You  look  like  an  ill-bred  cook!  ") — conmaented  un- 
favourably on  the  sort  of  household  which  lacked  a  corkscrew 
— ("When  I  take  trouble  to  bring  you  a  jar  of  olives!  ")  — 
and  finally  broke  the  news  that  he  was  going  to  Paris  on  busi- 
ness for  a  month. 

Zoe,  smarting  under  the  charge  of  a  lack  of  feeling,  flung 
herself  into  Pinto's  arms,  wailing  aloud  her  grief;  he  was 
horribly  jarred  by  her  piteous  want  of  control,  but  shutting 
his  eyes,  suffered  it  uncomplainingly  for  a  moment;  then 
condescendingly  pulled  her  ear,  and  remarked  that  he  expected 
her  behaviour  during  his  absence  to  be  circumspect,  discreet 
and  loyal. 

Zoe  promised. 

in 

"Coming  home  with  me  for  dinner.  Deb?  " 

"Yes.     Antonia " 

"Well?"  They  had  walked  along  in  silence  for  a  little 
while,  after  quitting  Zoe's  flat. 


172  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  You're  thinking  that  I  ought  not  to  have  stayed  down  at 
Seaview  with  Cliffe." 

"  Why  should  you  suppose  I'm  a  prig  who  can't  mind  her 
own  business,  Deb?  " 

"  There  was  no  harm  in  it,"  Deb  pleaded,  as  though  Antonia 
had  condemned  her. 

"That's  just  it"— slowly.  Then:  "No,  Deb,  don't  make 
me  —  please " 

"  I  know.  I  know.  The  same  whatever  I  do.  No  harm  in 
it,  but  you  wouldn't  have  done  it  yourself." 

"  Not  with  Cliffe." 

Deb  assented  in  anxious  self-defence:  "  One  might  as  well 
be  staying  under  the  roof  of  a  nice  old  lady." 

"  Then  —  is  it  worth  breaking  the  rules  for  —  that?  " 

"  You  believe  in  rules.     I  don't.     I'm  a  rebel." 

"  Half  a  rebel.  Or  you  wouldn't  be  justifying  yourself 
quite  so  hotly." 

"  And  you're  wholly  a  saint !  "  Deb  flared,  rather  unreason- 
ably, as  she  had  pushed  the  other  girl  to  attack. 

"  Because  I  don't  stay  under  the  roof  of  nice  old  ladies? 

It's  futile.     When  two  people  care  like  Gillian  and  Theo " 

she  stopped  short,  as  though  she  had  not  meant  to  let  slip  the 
names. 

"  I'm  always  hearing  of  Gillian  and  Theo.  Are  they  mar- 
ried? " 

"No.  Theo  Pandos  has  got  a  wife  somewhere.  He's  a 
Greek.     Clever  —  but  a  cad." 

"  And  Gillian  Sherwood  is  a  celebrity,  isn't  she?  " 

"  In  her  own  line  she's  supposed  to  be  unique.  Bacteriology. 
.  .  .  She  did  a  rather  wonderful  piece  of  research,  and  all 
the  hoary  professors  of  science  and  medicine  bent  before  her 
and  kowtowed.     It's  a  shame  she  should  squander  herself  on 

Theo,  j  ust  as  it's  a  shame "     Passionately  she  renewed  her 

attack  on  Deb:  "You've  betrayed  us  all.  .  .  .  Cliffe  will  sup- 
pose that  any  girl  —  I  —  I  hate  him  to  think  so.  Why  can't 
you  run  away  from  them  —  instead  of  towards  them?  " 

"  I  don't,"  whispered  Deb  piteously.     "  I  stop  where  I  am." 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  173 

"Then  —  run!"  with  an  imperious  stamp  of  the  strapped 
and  booted  foot.     "You  little  Oriental!  " 

"As  if  they  were  our  natural  enemies?  perpetual  hunters? 
It  seems  so  silly  and  self-conscious."  Nevertheless  she  recog- 
nized Antonia's  spirit  poised  for  flight,  and  applauded  it  —  the 
spirit  of  a  juvenile  athlete.  ...  It  really  had  been  a  pro- 
ceeding rather  without  purpose,  to  remain  at  Seaview.  Antonia 
never  did  things  without  purpose.  "  I  love  you  in  gauntlets 
and  puttees,  Antonia." 

The  General's  chauffeuse  laughed  at  the  flattery.  "  By  the 
way,  did  Zoe  say  Timothy  had  been  'phoning  her?  " 

"Little  Tim  Fawcett?  Yes,  I  believe  she  mentioned  him  — 
it  was  rather  swamped  in  a  lurid  story  about  a  post-office  clerk." 

"  Take  on  Timothy  —  yes,  you.  I'm  not  keen  on  Zoe's  in- 
fluence there.     He's  such  a  serious  baby,  and  he'll  idealize  her." 

"  He  might  also  idealize  me.  Besides,  I'm  not  going  to 
*  take  on '  anybody.  You've  just  been  bullying  me  about  it. 
My  soul  henceforth  shall  pace  apart  among  narrow  aisles  of 
lilies " 

"Tiger-lilies?" 

They  were  at  the  door  of  the  house  in  St.  John's  Wood  now. 
The  maid  admitted  them,  and  Antonia,  passing  her,  called  out: 
"  Come  straight  through  into  the  studio.  Deb." 

"  Please,  Miss  Antonia,  Miss  Sherwood  is  there,  waiting  for 
you." 

"  Gillian !  "  Antonia  stopped  short.  She  looked  at  the 
maid  —  then  at  Deb.  A  variety  of  baffling  expressions  flitted 
across  her  face.  ..."  Has  she  been  there  long?  " 

"  Oh  yes.  Miss,  nearly  an  hour."     The  maid  disappeared. 

"  I'm  so  glad  —  I  wanted  to  meet  her."  Deb  was  frankly 
eager  for  the  long-deferred  encounter  .  .  .  but  Antonia  was 
behaving  strangely;  standing  rigid  and  immobile,  her  slender 
eyebrows  contracted  as  in  some  desperate  effort  to  rally  a  final 
expedient  against  fate.  With  a  little  sigh  she  let  her  clenched 
hands  fall  open  in  surrender.  .  .  . 

"Come  along,"  and  moved  towards  the  passage  which  led 
down  the  garden  towards  the  studio. 


174  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

The  large  sky-lit  spaces  were  empty.  A  scrawled  note  lay 
on  the  box  of  oil-tubes:  "Sorry  —  couldn't  wait  any  longer. 
Come  on  Tuesday  evening  if  you  can.  G.  M.  S."  Antonia 
read  aloud.  The  suspended  colour  had  flooded  back  to  her 
face  drowning  it  in  carmine.  She  crumpled  the  paper  into  a 
ball  and  flung  it  towards  the  waste-paper  basket.  Her  aim  just 
missed. 

"  Take  oflF  your  hat,  Deb,"  she  cried  cheerfully. 

"  Let's  see  the  celebrity's  handwriting."  Deb  picked  up 
Gillian's  note  and  read:  "Sorry,  couldn't  wait  any  longer. 
Come  on  Tuesday  evening  if  you  can,  and  bring  Deb  Marcus. 
CliflFe  says  I'd  like  her.     G.  M.  S." 

"Antonia!" 

"  Yes?  "  Antonia's  back  was  turned.  She  was  apparently 
absorbed  in  scraping  a  palette. 

"  Why  did  you  —  Antonia,  I  want  to  know  Gillian  Sherwood. 
Why  don't  you  let  me?  " 

*'  And  the  good  angel  and  the  bad  shall  fight  together  for  this 
man's  soul,"  murmured  Antonia.  Then  she  dropped  the 
palette,  and  faced  round,  all  her  delicate  pearliness  broken  up 
to  passion  —  the  passion  of  the  earnest  priestess  for  a  convert 
in  danger :  "  Yes,  you're  right.  Deb  —  I  have  been  working 
to  keep  you  and  Gillian  apart,  now,  and  before  now,  and  I've 
not  given  in  yet.    Accident  has  backed  me  up  this  time.'* 

"But  why?     Antonia  —  why?     Not  just  jealousy?" 

"  No,  child  —  not  just  jealousy.  But  Gillian  Sherwood  is  on 
her  way  to  do  what  yoU  must  be  prevented  from  doing.  And 
I  don't  trust  her  influence.  If  Jill  cares  for  Theo,  and  gives 
herself  to  Theo  —  it's  a  splendid  person  thrown  away,  but  not 
frittered  away.  But  you,"  scornfully,  "  you'd  be  all  over  the 
place  —  once  you  started.    You  shan't  start." 

Again  Deb  asked  "  Why?  " 

Antonia  flashed  her  a  smile  which  was  a  radiant  appeal  to 
good  comradeship:  "Because  .  .  .  you're  such  a  little 
goose!  " 


CHAPTER  V 

CLIFFE  KENNEDY,  entering  the  Tube  at  Charing  Cross, 
caught  sight  of  Mr.  Otto  Redbury  between  the  bobbing 
hats  and  swaying  bodies  that  crowded  up  the  carriage; 
and  immediately  pushed  his  way  to  a  strap  which  directly 
overhung  that  gentleman's  head. 

Cliffe  always  asserted  that  on  the  occasion  Deb  took  him  to 
call,  he  had  discovered  a  tricky  fascination  about  Mr.  Redbury; 
this  was  clearly  an  opportunity  to  refresh  the  emotion. 

Otto  waved  the  evening  paper  at  him,  in  jubilant  greeting. 

"  Anozzer  vamous  fictory!  " 

"  The  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine  has  made  the  phrase 
immortal,"  murmured  Cliffe.  "  How  lucky  for  her  that  she 
rhymed  with  village  green." 

Otto  looked  uneasy;  not  comprehending  the  reference,  but 
wishing  that  somebody  had  informed  the  young  man  that  the 
Redbury  grandchild  was  better  referred  to  in  public  as  Minnie. 
He  changed  the  subject. 

"  You  live  somevere  on  zis  line,  Mr.  Gennedy?  I  get  out  at 
Pelzize  Bark." 

"  Oooo  .  .  .  nice!  "  gurgled  Cliffe.  Otto  looked  interroga- 
tively. 

Cliffe  serenely  covered  his  lapse  from  manners.  "  Hamp- 
stead  is  my  station.  Our  house  is  on  the  Heath  itself.  You 
must  come  and  make  friends  with  my  mother,  Mr.  Redbury. 
She'd  like  you  so  much.  Come  to  lunch  one  day.  Come  on 
Saturday." 

Mr.  Redbury  beamed  and  puffed  out  his  meagre  chest,  an- 
ticipating the  conquest  of  Mrs.  Kennedy.  This  was  undoubt- 
edly a  very  pleasant  and  discriminating  young  man.  ..."  But 
I  always  vind  blenty  in  gommon  viz  English  people  —  the 

175 


176  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

good  old  shtock;  " — sentiment  reserved  for  the  after  benefit 
of  Trudchen ;  and  to  impress  Beatrice. 

"  Yoo-stone !  "  bawled  the  guard.  A  number  of  passengers 
squeezed  their  way  out;  and  Cliffe  dropped  lightly  on  to  the 
vacated  seat  beside  Otto. 

"  My  dear  mother's  a  widow,  so  don't  bring  your  wife.  She 
was  deeply  attached  to  my  poor  father,  and  can't  bear  the  sight 
of  any  woman  less  fortunate  in  a  husband  alive." 

Otto,  groping  after  what  was  complimentary  in  this  out- 
burst, came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  clang  of  the  gates  had 
obliterated  its  part  meaning. 

"  Besides,"  Cliffe  ran  on,  in  a  rapid  confidential  undertone, 
"  why  be  for  ever  bound  by  the  conventions?  —  Look  at  all  the 

jaded   joyless   faces "     A   rubicund    Jack   Tar    opposite 

grinned  broadly,  thrust  his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  his  arm  round 
his  girl  beside  him,  and  rolled  an  expressive  eye  in  Cliffe's 
direction.  "  The  day's  routine,  and  the  jolting  train,  and  a 
dreary  little  home  in  Camden  Town,  and  the  evening  paper, 
and  another  day  —  and  another,  and  yet  another.  .  .  .  What 
those  faces  want,  Mr.  Redbury,  and  I  see  you  agree  with  me,  is 
Paganism  —  joie  de  vivre  —  a  gallop  with  the  centaurs!  " 

His  companion,  who  would  have  turned  peevish  and  retired 
into  his  bathroom  stronghold  at  the  very  first  encounter  with 
a  centaur,  nodded  sagely.  .  .  . 

"0  glorious  Life!  "  rhapsodized  Cliffe,  stretching  forth  his 
arms,  oblivious  of  his  neighbours'  discomfort  and  astonishment. 

"  Wass-vot?  who  vere  you  viz  last  night?  "  chuckled  Otto, 
his  eyes  mere  slits  of  lewd  curiosity. 

"Last  night  .  .  .  last  night  .  .  ."  ecstatically  —  then  came 
an  imperceptible  halt,  as  Cliffe  discarded  a  comparatively 
innocent  evening  spent  at  home  with  Philip  Gibbs'  "  Soul  of 
the  War,"  in  favour  of  his  almost  equally  harmless  adventure 
with  .Deb  at  Seaview  the  week-end  before.  This  would  serve, 
touched  up  with  scarlet  and  purple;  it  was  additionally  spiced 
by  the  reflection  of  how  Otto's  whetted  tongue  would  loll  out, 
metaphorically  speaking,  if  he  knew  that  the  heroine  of  this 
presented  drama  of  Real  Life  as  it  isn't,  was  Deb  Marcus,  his 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  177 

late  partner's  daughter,  and  a  friend  of  his  own  daughter  Nell. 

"  Two  of  us  —  and  the  great  scented  common  rolling  away 
from  our  doors  to  a  star-stabbed  sky.  Two  of  us  —  for  when 
the  little  Dryad  so  long  immersed  in  the  oak-tree  of  tradition, 
sprang  out  at  last  into  my  arms,  her  hair  wildly  ablow,  and 
with  lips  red  as  blood,  then  all  the  pettier  issues  of  the  Philis- 
tines were  trampled,  I  say  trampled,  Mr.  Redbury,  under  the 
wings  which  sprang  godlike  from  our  exultant  shoulder  blades ! 
.  .  .  (Oh  God!  what  a  sentence!  .  ,  .)" 

"  Camden  Town !  " 

The  morbidly  interested  school-girl  on  Cliffe's  left  was  re- 
luctant to  alight  —  but  that  happened  to  be  her  station,  and 
she  dared  not  be  late  for  supper. 

Otto,  as  the  train  gathered  speed  again,  turned  to  Cliffe 
expectantly,  as  a  hint  that  confidences  might  be  resumed.  Of 
course  he  disapproved  of  these  casual  rollicking  nights  spent 
unchaperoned  save  by  the  rolling  common  .  .  .  disapproved 
and  was  biliously  envious:  but  —  but  —  his  look  was  akin  to  a 
nudge  in  the  ribs  —  and  Kennedy,  always  obliging,  discarded 
poetic  eloquence  in  favour  of  the  one-dog-to-another  style 
obviously  more  suited  to  the  temperament  of  Mr.  Redbury. 
He  was  thoroughly  enjoying  his  own  pose  of  the  young- 
Bohemian  type  he  most  abominated  in  practice. 

"  You  know  how  it  is "  was  sufficient  to  sound  the  new 

note  of  waggishness.  "You've  heard  the  old  joke  about  hang- 
ing pictures,  Mr.  Redbury  —  I  bet  you  have " 

"Ho!  ho!  ho!  "from  Otto. 

"  We  were  —  hanging  pictures  .  .  .  and  missed  the  train 
home  —  the  last  train  but  one " 

"  And  the  last  drain  of  all  vent  too  late,  eh?  " 

"  Well  —  there  it  is,  you  see  —  you  can't  bring  a  girl  home 
at  any  hour  —  especially  if  her  father's  at  all  particular  —  as 
fathers  sometimes  are  —  as  fathers  sometimes  are,  Mr.  Red- 
bury." 

And  Otto  chuckled  and  winked  and  coughed  and  cleared  his 
throat,  and  settled  his  cuffs,  and  chuckled  again,  as  though 
the  lives  of  Hedda  and  Nell  were  never  rendered  a  burden  to 


178  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

them  by  the  paternal  injunction:  "  Home  by  nine  o'clock,  and 
bed  at  ten  " —  and  interposed  a  swaggering  if  somewhat  la- 
boured anecdote  of  his  own  secret  unorthodoxy  — "  We  dake  it 
for  granted  this  is  between  you  and  me,  yong  vellow !  " 

"Belsipark!  "     The  doors  flew  ajar. 

Cliffe  replied  with  a  corresponding  drop  into  gravity :  "  I 
trust  equally  in  your  discretion  regarding  the  confidence  I  have 
placed  in  you,  Mr.  Redbury " 

".  .  .  Of  course  he'll  prattle  —  but  I  mentioned  no  names," 
as  Otto,  trotting  up  the  platform  towards  the  exit,  cast  through 
the  window  of  the  compartment  a  look  of  unutterable  fraternity 
and  knowingness. 


CHAPTER  VI 


OCTOBER  brought  Samson  Phillips  to  town  for  six  weeks 
of  special  signalling  instruction.  Quite  suddenly,  from 
lethargic  standing  about  in  the  vicinity  of  Deb,  as  he 
had  done  since  her  kiss-in-the-ring  days,  some  imseen  goad 
prodded  him  into  courtship.  The  old-fashioned  word  exactly 
expressed  the  flavour  of  his  proceedings.  Perhaps  he  was 
afraid  she  would  sink  too  deeply  into  the  mire  of  Bohemianism, 
as  exemplified  by  La  lloraine  and  Cliffe  Kennedy,  in  whose 
company  he  had  found  her  on  his  previous  leave.  At  all 
events,  without  quite  knowing  how  it  came  about.  Deb  perceived 
the  handsome  sapper  to  be  a  prominent  factor  in  her  daily 
life.  He  rang  her  up  on  the  'phone  regularly  every  morning, 
and  was  alternately  facetious  or  reproachfully  tender  in  claim- 
ing her  for  the  theatre,  or  a  jaunt  in  the  country,  or  dinner 
with  his  people.  The  play  or  the  restaurant  was  always  se- 
lected by  him  with  due  care  for  her  innocence  and  not  her 
preference.  He  loaded  her  with  gifts  that  were  a  compromise 
between  the  generosity  of  an  Eastern  potentate  in  the  wooing 
of  a  rapacious  slave-girl,  and  such  restraint  as  decorum  de- 
mands before  an  engagement  be  a  sealed  fact:  books  of  poetry, 
principally  Spencer's  "  Faerie  Queen,"  flowers,  chocolates,  crys- 
tallized fruits  —  gloves  ...  he  was  not  quite  sure  about  the 
gloves,  and  consulted  his  sister  Beatrice,  who  said  she  thought 
a  slight  touch  of  unconventionality  might  be  pleasing  to  Deb; 
—  and  war-trophies,  which  of  course  were  "  different." 

The  Phillips  men  always  conducted  a  courtship  with  their 
entire  family  rolling  up  behind  them,  wave  after  wave,  and 
ready  with  a  hearty  benison  instantly  the  signal  for  readiness 
should  be  given.    A  man  with  honest  intentions  need  make 

179 


180  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

no  secret  of  them,  Samson  sturdily  contended.  Not  only  the 
Phillips'  mother  and  grandparents  and  sisters  and  three 
younger  brothers  with  their  wives,  but  also,  by  virtue  of  Bea- 
trice's marriage,  the  whole  Redbury  family  assisted  at  the 
pretty  spectacle  of  a  dark-haired  Jewish  maiden  wooed  and  won 
by  a  son  of  the  same  tribe.  Deb  told  Antonia  it  was  like  being 
courted  in  the  Arena  at  Olympia  on  a  day  when  thrown  open 
to  the  general  public.  Her  set  also  were  amused,  though  less 
ostentatiously,  by  the  progress  of  the  affair ;  it  was  of  a  species 
new  to  them,  and  Zoe  and  Cliffe,  in  particular,  were  clamorous 
for  details;  puzzled  that  Deb  withheld  these.  For  in  spite  of 
her  exasperation  with  the  Phillips  en  masse,  she  was  loyal 
enough  Jewess  to  protect  her  own  clan  from  the  levity  of  the 
Gentile.  She  confided  in  Antonia;  Antonia  knew  when  to  con- 
trol mere  ribaldry;  and  to  consider  Samson  as  a  human  being, 
instead  of  an  entertainment. 

The  whole  wooing  was  not  so  incongruous  to  Deb's  tempera- 
ment as  the  Studio  Gang  believed  it.  They  made  no  account 
of  her  fundamental  racial  instincts  responsive  to  just  such  a 
reaction  from  truancy,  nor  to  the  first  twenty  years  of  her  life, 
spent  in  an  atmosphere  where  Samson's  methods  would  have 
seemed  wholly  normal  and  pleasing.  The  incongruity  only 
appeared  when  contrasted  with  more  recent  imprints  on  her 
development.  These  were  responsible  for  her  first  careless 
acceptance  of  Samson's  appropriation;  she  forgot,  until  too 
deeply  committed  for  withdrawal,  that  his  actions  and  her 
acquiescence  were  here  expressive  of  more  ponderous  signifi- 
cance than  in  the  case  of  Cliff^e  Kennedy,  for  instance.  She 
forgot,  in  fact,  at  the  outset  of  the  event,  that  the  Samsons  of 
this  world  do  not  lend  themselves  to  wayside  incident. 

Apprehension  faintly  stirred  in  her  only  when  she  saw  escape 
everywhere  blocked,  by  the  solemnly  joyful  expectation  of 
Samson's  mother  and  grandparents  who  had  so  long  and  pa- 
tiently waited  for  the  eldest  son  to  make  his  choice;  by  the 
already-one-of-the-family  chaff  of  his  younger  brothers  and 
their  wives  (Samson  shorn  of  his  strength  by  Delilah  was  a 
recurringly  favourite  joke  with  them) ;  by  her  own  folly  in 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  181 

having  yielded  whenever  he  petitioned  for  her  company; 
mainly,  by  Samson's  propensity  to  propose  to  her  in  the  form 
of  an  arithmetical  allegory  in  which  Cliffe  Kennedy  hazily 
figured  — "  Supposing  one  Man  were  to  have  known  one  Girl 
for  sixteen  years,  and  she  had  known  another  Man  for  three 
and  a  half  months,  while  the  first  Man  was  away;  and  the  first 
Man  came  home  again  for  six  weeks,  how  long  ought  he  to  wait 
before  taking  the  Girl  to  drink  from  the  Singing  Stream?  " 

The  Singing  Stream  was  not  a  public-house.  It  was  Sam- 
son's way  of  alluding  to  pure  love.  He  was  obsessed  by  the 
notion  that  if  you  take  a  girl  to  the  water,  she  cannot  help  but 
be  freshened  and  purified  by  mere  sight  of  its  freshness  and 
purity. 

Bohemia  to  him  meant  dancing  and  carnival  and  riot  in  hot 
studios;  it  meant  glaring  lights  and  stifling  air  and  glittering 
evening  dress.  All  the  nineteenth-century  rigmarole:  the  flash, 
and  gleam  of  bare  limbs;  the  dark  hectic  red  of  spilt  wine; 
exotic  music,  and  the  stage,  and  doubtful  witticisms  and  free 
love  —  free  love  as  opposed  to  real  love.  It  was  his  fixed  idea 
that  literally  to  remove  Deb  from  the  fetid  atmosphere  and 
take  her  to  where  a  stream  babbled  and  gurgled  and  splashed 
over  the  stones  and  between  green  banks,  was  then  and  there 
bound  to  react  upon  her  system  in  the  way  that  he  so  desired. 

It  did  not  take  Deb  long  to  perceive  his  motive  for  these  day- 
long jaunts  into  the  country;  and  mischief  urged  her  to  play 
up;  to  dabble  her  fingers  among  the  slippery  shallows  —  it  was 
fortunately  a  warm  October  —  and  to  sigh  .  .  .  once  or  twice 

.  .  .  and  murmur  "  I  wish "  and  be  wistfully  silent  again 

.  .  .  and  dabble  a  bit  more  .  .  .  was  quite  sufficient  to  make 
Samson  preen  himself,  owning  the  stream,  her  thoughts,  the 
crude  blue  sky,  and  the  entire  healing  balm  of  Nature.  He 
wished  her  to  be  convinced  of  her  folly  in  lingering  to  gaze  at 
Vanity  Fair,  when  she  might  have  been  weaving  willow  gar- 
lands. It  was  inconceivable  that  she  had  done  more  than 
gaze  with  childish  long-lashed  eyes  .  .  .  not  knowing  what  she 
saw.  .  .  . 

As  though  in  complete  sympathy  with  the  cause  of  reform, 


182  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

running  water  seemed  to  follow  him  about  automatically. 
Whatever  haphazard  portion  of  country  they  rambled,  the 
persistent  brook  appeared  like  an  obedient  servant  on  com- 
mand. Deb  began  to  wish  her  education  were  completed;  the 
weather  might  any  day  turn  chill  and  dreary.  With  this  in 
mind,  she  perched  upon  a  couple  of  rickety  boards  which 
roughly  bridged  a  sparkle  of  narrow  river,  and  shamelessly 
determined  to  put  forth  her  powers  to  exact  forthwith  the 
inevitable  proposal,  and  thus  be  through  with  it. 

She  had  not  the  same  compunction  in  dealing  with  Samson 
Phillips  that  might  have  wrung  her  had  he  been  the  good- 
natured,  faithful  type  of  fool  she  had  at  first  imagined  him. 
The  man  had  revealed  himself  a  fanatic,  whose  gospel  was 
Simple  Goodness;  but  who  in  preaching  it  materialized  its 
intangible  fragrance  as  of  garnered  apples,  into  a  quality  of 
cold  iron;  forbidding,  repellant.  High-principled  he  cer- 
tainly was,  but  intolerantly  throned  and  totally  without  forgive- 
ness. He  would  have  made  martyrs  where  he  could  not  make 
converts.  He  destroyed  Simple  Goodness,  in  his  harsh  ad- 
vocacy, as  he  had  destroyed  the  beauty  of  running  water,  by 
letting  it  serve  as  object-lesson. 

On  this  berry  and  bronze  morning  of  October,  Deb  opposed 
to  him  a  dancing  elfin  mood  that  was  far  more  nimbly  in  accord 
with  the  tags  of  fluttering  colour  blown  from  the  trees  into  the 
eddies  of  writhing  silver,  with  the  jolly  boisterous  hedges,  all 
aflame  and  a-prickle,  a  blaze  of  hips  and  haws  webbed  in  the 
powdery  tangle  of  old-man's-beard  —  Deb  was  more  wickedly 
and  wantonly  a  part  of  such  a  morning  as  this,  kicking  her  legs 
to  and  fro  from  the  plank  which  spanned  the  water,  than  Sam- 
son with  all  his  most  complacent  hopes  for  her  betterment 
and  cure  could  have  deemed  possible. 

"  This  is  how  I  like  to  see  you  looking,"  he  said,  lying  full 
length  on  the  bank,  and  smiling  lazily  across  at  her.  "  Come, 
now,  isn't  it  better  than  studios?  " 

"  Supposing  a  girl  should  marry  a  man  " — ("  and  I  don't  see 
why  he  shouldn't  do  some  mathematics  for  a  change,"  reflected 
Deb)  — "  Supposing  a  girl  should  marry  a  man,  and  the  man 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  183 

had  different  tastes  from  the  girl,  about  studios  and  nature, 

you  know,  and  they  had  two  children "     Samson  turned 

his  head  away,  and  nibbled  grass  — "  and  both  had  the  same 
tastes  as  either  one  of  the  parents,  ought  the  other  to  give  up 
his  or  her  own  feelings  about  things  or  force  them  on  the 
children,  supposing  he  or  she  to  be  sure  his  or  her  ways  were 
the  best?  " 

And  she  waited  solemnly  for  him  to  work  it  out. 

He  won  respect  by  neither  flinching  nor  compromising.  "  A 
man  should  never  allow  his  children  to  be  brought  up  away 
from  Nature,  whatever  they  may  want  themselves." 

"  Yes  " —  straddling  the  plank  so  as  to  face  him  — "  but  isrCt 
what  they  want  themselves.  Nature?  And  if  it  isn't  natural  for 
them  to  want  Nature " 

"  Then  they  are  unnatural  children,"  said  Samson,  stamping 
with  firm  boots  on  his  mythical  offspring. 

Deb's  eyes  suddenly  filled  with  tears.  Fancy  had  quickened 
into  momentary  life  a  pair  of  baby  creatures  like  herself, 
eager  for  bright,  useless  toys,  perversely  breaking  them  at  each 
fresh  disappointment  .  .  .  her  children,  pressed  and  wrenched 
into  the  pattern  their  inflexible  father  judged  best  for  them.  .  .  . 

The  might-have-been  faded,  and  was  replaced  by  an  exultant 
sense  of  escape.  Thank  God,  these  children  —  hers  and  Sam- 
son's—  need  never  live  and  be  sorrowful;  thank  God,  she  was 
still  free  to  scamper  away  and  play. 

"  Deb "  he  pulled  the  peak  of  his  cap  down  over  his 

eyes;  and  his  words  were  pumped  out  with  extreme  difficulty. 
"  Deb,  will  you  marry  me?  " 

"  No  —  oh,  no  " —  reaction  was  still  too  violent  to  admit  of 
polite  temporizing. 

A  long  silence  while  Samson  assimilated  her  refusal.  An 
interminable  silence.  Was  he  wondering  what  his  family 
would  say?  They  were  in  such  a  crucial  condition  of  expect- 
ancy that  he  would  have  to  tell  them  when  he  got  home  —  the 
telling  would  not  be  easy.  .  .  .  Deb  rebelliously  tried  to  jerk 
pity  aside;  it  was  his  own  fault.  The  right  sort  of  man  would 
have  been  decently  uncommunicative  till  his  desire  was  an 


184  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

accomplished  fact;  so  typically  Jewish  to  drag  in  the  entire 
household!  Or  else  he  should  have  chosen  a  maiden  more  suit- 
able to  be  the  object  of  his  benevolent  chivalry.  She  had  not 
deliberately  hoodwinked  him  into  belief  that  she  was  this 
maiden,  so  unlettered  in  life  as  his  obstinacy  chose  to  assert. 
The  accordion  stretches  or  shrinks  according  to  the  player. 
She  hummed  a  tag  of  verse: 

"  He  made  a  plaster  image  and  he  put  it  on  a  shelf 
With  a  few  assorted  virtues  that  he  didn't  want  himself." 

—  Outburst  of  romping  spirits  muted  quickly  at  recollection 
of  the  figure  lying  motionless  and  with  back  turned  towards 
her.  .  .  .  He  was  the  only  man  who  had  ever  spoken  the 
actual  words  to  her:  "  Will  you  marry  me?  "  Funny!  Years 
ago,  before  they  quarrelled,  she  and  Con  were  canoeing  in  a 
sort  of  hazy  dreamland  when  it  was  taken  for  granted  between 
them  that  they  would  canoe  thus  into  all  eternity;  and  the 
other  men.  .  .  .  What  on  earth  had  led  Samson  to  such  a 
mistake  in  selection?  From  the  outside,  of  course,  she  ap- 
peared to  have  most  of  the  requisites:  same  faith,  decent  family, 
right  age  (a  year  or  two  older  than  perfection,  perhaps,  but 
nothing  to  fuss  about!)  good  looks,  good  health,  good  man- 
ners—  the  presence  of  his  mother  had  always  petrified  her 
into  gentle  orthodoxy  .  .  .  but  surely,  surely,  he  must  have 
sensed  behind  these  layers,  something  wrong  —  Well,  not 
exactly  wrong,  but  different.  Perhaps  he  did  realize  it  now, 
and  was  relieved  ...  he  hardly  looked  relieved  —  furtively 
her  eyes  peeped  towards  him,  and  then  quickly  away  again  .  .  . 
an  almost  stricken  expression  to  his  recumbent  lines.  Surely 
she  could  not  be  responsible  for  that?  What  possible  thread 
of  affinity  was  taut  and  silken  between  her  and  Samson  that 
any  act  of  hers  could  reach  him  and  hurt  him?  He  should 
have  been  sensible  —  Deb  kicked  petulantly  at  a  low  bough 
near  her  foot  —  the  suitable  kind  of  girl  would  have  accepted 
him  joyfully;  would  be  nestling  her  head  against  his  shoulder 
by  now;  causing  him  to  feel  so  strong  and  brave  and  protec- 
tive; and  he  could  have  taken  her  home,  and  proudly  trumpeted 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  185 

his  engagement,  and  the  united  family  could  have  poured  out 
lavish  blessings  .  .  .  quite  wonderful,  in  its  Suitable  way,  this 
Suitable  dream;  she  could  see  that;  only  it  did  not  fit  her,  or 
else  she  did  not  fit  it  ...  a  dream  going  begging! 

Still  silent?  Another  glimmering  look  from  between  her 
lashes,  two  black  fans,  long  in  the  centre,  dwindling  at  either 
corner.  He  must  be  badly  hurt  .  .  .  grace  touched  her  to  pen- 
itence again.  After  all,  he  had  wanted  just  her  —  so  there 
must  be  a  particle  of  her  very  self,  apart  from  all  miscon- 
ception, which  had  tugged  him  to  love  and  to  pain. 

Yes  —  but  can't  he  look  after  himself?  Need  I?  need  I? 
No  one  looked  after  me  when  the  Soldier.  .  .  .  Need  one  be 
nice  to  grown-up  men  ?  Because  even  when  it's  only  a  boy  — 
even  when  it's  Lothar  von  Relling,  nobody  understands  that 
you're  just  "  trying  to  be  nice."  .  .  .  She  had  been  waiting  over 
a  year  for  a  little  heavenly  approbation  for  that  act.  Neverthe- 
less, she  ought  to  have  said  something  softening  in  answer  to 
Samson's  avowal,  besides  the  bald  and  honest:  "Oh  no" 
.  .  .  Manners!  — What  did  one  say?  "  Believe  me.  Sir,  I  am 
deeply  sensible  of  the  honour  you  have  done  me,  though  all 
unworthy  of  it," —  Deb  could  not  suppress  a  joyous  gurgle  of 
laughter  —  she  was  free  —  free  —  light  of  heel  and  of  heart. 
No  more  arithmetical  allegories;  nor  deriving  of  solid  moral 
benefit  from  the  sight  of  running  water;  nor  suffocation  under 
the  possessive  approval  of  a  good  Jewish  family;  nor  quaking 
in  apprehension  of  the  proposal  to  come.  She  was  free  to  re- 
turn to  the  set  of  wild  young  heretics  who  knew  her  as  she  was 
—  or  a  little  worse  —  in  place  of  these  others  who  thought  her 
so  much  better,  and  to  whom  her  real  self  would  have  been  a 
mystifying  disaster. 

Samson  stirred  at  the  sound  of  her  laugh.  "  Come  along, 
we  shall  miss  our  train,"  he  said  curtly.  The  peak  of  his  cap 
stood  between  them  all  the  way  home.  To  avoid  being  alone 
with  her,  he  chose  a  crowded  compartment  for  their  journey 
home,  and  completed  it  in  a  motor  omnibus,  instead  of  a  taxi- 
cab  according  to  custom.  Deb  submitted  meekly,  feeling  as 
though  she  were  being  punished  for  naughtiness.     It  was  her 


186  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

nature  to  cling  affectionately  even  to  unpleasant  conditions, 
directly  they  had  established  any  claims  of  habit;  so  that  it 
was  with  a  pang  of  kindliness  that  from  the  steps  of  Montagu 
Hall  she  saw  Samson  salute  her  and  stride  away: 
"  And  now  I  shall  never  see  him  again !  " 

II 

She  saw  him  again  three  evenings  afterwards.  His  mother 
wrote,  cordially  bidding  her  to  dinner.  Deb,  with  every  in- 
clination to  behave  like  a  coward  and  refuse,  yet  felt  it  incum- 
bent upon  her  to  "  face  the  music."  .  .  .  She  had  eaten  at  the 
Phillips'  table  every  day  and  sometimes  twice  a  day,  for  a 
fortnight.  But  she  could  not  help  considering  the  invitation  a 
mistake  in  tactics  —  What  more  could  they  want  of  her,  now? 

She  consulted  Richard:  "D'you  think  I  need  go?  It'll  be 
like  a  funeral.     I  feel  I  ought  to  bring  a  wreath." 

"  Sure  you  don't  want  him?  "  asked  Richard  gravely. 

"  No  —  no  —  no.  I  should  have  to  go  to  Synagogue,  and 
dine  with  the  whole  family  at  Mrs.  Phillips'  every  single  night 
—  they  never  seem,  any  of  them,  to  dine  at  their  own  houses. 
And  have  a  Visitors'  Day.  And  do  good  works;  not  good 
work,  but  good  works.  And  never  read  anything  except  the 
Faerie  Queen  and  Rosa  Nouchette  Carey,  and  the  newspaper 
leaders.  And  give  up  all  my  pals,  because  they're  a  bad  lot. 
And  be  accountable  to  a  man  for  my  freaks." 

"  Well  —  that's  just  being  married,  isn't  it?  " 

"  It's  just  being  married  to  Samson  Phillips  —  and  that's  be- 
ing married  three  times  thick.  I  say  —  I  do  believe  you're 
in  favour  of  it." 

Richard  said  he  did  not  want  to  force  her  inclinations.  He 
was  perfectly  serious  about  it;  these  lapses  overtook  him  at 
times. 

She  curled  her  arms  round  the  balustrade  post  —  their  con- 
versation took  place  at  the  foot  of  the  Montagu  Hall  main 
staircase  —  and  put  her  chin  down  on  her  arms  and  said: 
"Dear  old  boy,  I  warn  you  that  you  and  father  and  Aunt 
Stella  would  be  taken  over  by  the  Phillips  family-life,  and  be 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  187 

absorbed  like  ink  into  blotting-paper.  I  daresay  grandfather 
would  manage  to  stand  out.  .  .  ." 

"  He's  a  Major  in  the  Sappers,  isn't  he?  " 

"Samson?     No,  only  Captain.     Why?  " 

"  Nothing.  ...  I  mean  the  family  are  known  to  be  tre- 
mendously patriotic  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  aren't  they?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.  Rotting  apart,  Richard,  d'you  think  I  need 
go  tonight?  " 

"Yes,  I  do." 

So  Deb  went,  a  shy,  prim  creature  in  flowered  silk  and  fichu; 
all  her  troll  mood  of  October  dried  into  apprehension  of  spend- 
ing three  awful  hours  in  the  awful  company  of  an  awful  family 
hating  her  because  she  had  flouted  it.  More  than  ever  did  she 
quake  at  the  sound  of  her  unnecessarily  loud  and  nervous  peal 
at  the  bell,  and  wished  that  the  Phillips  would  conduct  their 
love  afi^airs  in  solo,  and  not  in  the  bulk. 

By  the  end  of  dinner,  she  was,  metaphorically,  rubbing  her 
eyes  and  wondering  if  she  had  dreamt  the  whole  matter  of 
Samson's  proposal  and  her  rejection  of  it.  The  cicatrice  of  her 
infliction  showed  not  a  trace' on  the  smooth  firm  skin  of  the 
Phillips'  complacency.  The  Phillips'  grandparents  still  made 
a  fuss  of  the  dear  little  girl,  such  a  well-mannered  little  girl, 
and  (in  brackets)  our  Samson's  little  girl.  Mrs.  Phillips  and 
Beatrice  still  included  her  in  all  their  plans,  and  consulted  her 
with  pleasant  humorous  allowance  for  her  immaturity.  While 
Herbert  and  Abe,  the  two  younger  brothers  —  Joseph  was  at 
the  Front  —  and  their  wives  Martha  and  Gwendolen  —  Flor- 
ence was  not  yet  allowed  to  be  up  more  than  an  hour  a  day, 
although  little  Fanny  was  a  miraculously  good  baby  —  contin- 
ued their  chaffs  as  though  the  situation  were  at  exactly  the 
same  stage  as  last  time  Deb  had  dined  there.  Abe  even  made 
reference  to  the  threadbare  matter  of  Delilah  and  clipped 
locks.  .  .  . 

Only  Samson  was  imperceptibly  more  silent  than  usual; 
but  he  was  never  talkative.  "Can't  he  have  told  them?" 
but  of  course  he  had  told  them.  They  were  probably  informed 
beforehand  of  the  exact  hour  he  had  meant  to  propose.     Then 


188  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

.  .  .  what  was  the  psychology  of  their  present  behaviour? 
Deb  was  helpless,  rebellious,  wholly  perplexed,  and  disliking 
her  company  more  than  ever  before,  because  she  had  imagined 
she  was  definitely  rid  of  it;  that  she  would  never  again  sit 
amongst  flashes  of  white  teeth  —  they  were  a  handsome  healthy 
family  and  had  married  handsome  healthy  girls  —  and  hear 
the  curiously  robust  conversation  about  Florence  and  her  baby. 
When  a  married  pair  was  in  question,  they  knew  no  reticence; 
it  was  right  and  seemly  that  open  discussion  should  take  place, 
even  in  the  presence  of  a  young  girl;  no  harm  at  all  —  had 
not  Abe  and  Florence  been  enjoined  in  the  Synagogue,  within 
hearing  of  all,  to  wax  fruitful?  .  .  .  But  all  jokes  concern- 
ing love  unsanctioned  by  the  Rabbi  were  strictly  prohibited  by 
the  Phillips'  men  until  they  were  in  smoking-room  seclusion. 
This  was  their  code.     The  code  of  the  Jewish  male. 

"I  —  I  did  say  '  no,'  didn't  I?  I  couldn't  have  said  '  yes  ' 
by  mistake?  "  Deb  racked  her  brains  —  and  recognized  with 
horror  that  her  favourite  pudding  had  been  provided  —  a 
pudding  she  hated.  She  had  told  Mrs.  Phillips  once  that  it 
was  her  favourite,  because  that  lady  was  distressing  herself 
over  an  imaginary  poorness  of  fare;  and  ever  since  then  it 
was  carefully  ordered  for  her,  and  beamingly  heaped  on  to 
her  plate.  Tonight  the  necessity  for  a  second  helping  was 
worse  than  ever,  because  bewilderment  had  robbed  her  of 
appetite,  especially  for  coals  of  fire. 

Once  or  twice  it  seemed  to  her  morbidly  excited  fancy  as 
though  the  wedding  had  taken  place  already  —  while  she  was 
asleep  or  hynotized  or  under  drugs  —  and  already  she  was  a 
Phillips,  doomed  to  dine  at  this  seat  at  this  table  in  this  room 
for  ever  and  ever,  till  she  was  as  old  as  Grandmother  Phillips; 
until  she  died  and  all  the  male  Phillips  followed  her  corpse  to 
its  cremation,  and  were  reluctant  even  then  to  scatter  abroad 
the  ashes.  .  .  .  "Yes,  Mrs.  Phillips?  "  She  started  from  her 
trance,  to  find  the  ladies  had  risen  from  their  seats,  and  that 
she  was  being  markedly  beckoned  upstairs  by  a  would-be 
mother-in-law  into  her  bedroom  to  see  the  corals  purchased  for 
little  Fanny. 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  189 

Df^b  thought :    "  It's  coming  now.  .  .  ." 

It  came. 

The  explanation  was  simple  after  all:  Samson,  it  appeared, 
according  to  his  mother,  did  not  understand  girls.  He  had 
never  taken  any  notice  of  them  —  till  Deb.  He  was  that  sort 
of  man.  So  when  Deb  in  her  first  confusion  and  surprise  had 
stammered  "  no "  to  his  offer,  he  had  believed  she  meant 
"  no  "  .  .  .  He  had  come  home  in  a  terrible  state  —  dear  silly 
fellow!  —  till  they  had  all  assured  him  it  was  all  right,  and  that 
he  had  only  to  press  for  a  different  answer  to  get  it.  .  .  . 
"  Girls  aren't  as  downright  as  men,"  Beatrice  had  assured 
him — "just  the  plain  question,  without  even  taking  her  hand? 
—  and  then  you  shut  up  completely?  Oh,  Samson,  you  old 
goose  —  you  don't  deserve  her!  "  To  which  her  brother  an- 
swered gloomily:  "How  can  I  take  her  hand  before  she  has 
accepted  me?  " 

"  You  know,  little  Deb  " —  Mrs.  Phillips  wound  up  her  re- 
cital, "  Samson  is  so  upright " 

Downright  .  .  .  and  upright  .  .  .  yes,  all  that,  but  she 
did  not  want  him.  How  to  make  these  people  aware  that  it  was 
more  than  maidenly  bashfulness  which  had  prompted  her  to 
let  drop  the  stupendous  good  fortune  deposited  in  the  palms 
of  her  hands. 

Duly  chastened,  she  sat  quietly  on  a  small  pouffe,  her  head 
bent,  her  hands  linked  in  her  lap,  while  Mrs.  Phillips  apolo- 
gized for  Samson's  remissness  in  not  urging  his  suit  to  tri- 
umphant conclusion  that  afternoon  on  the  bridge;  and  betrayed 
at  the  same  time  her  stern  pride  in  the  rigid  sense  of  honour 
which  had  forbidden  her  son  to  speak  to  the  girl  of  his  great 
love  for  her  at  the  same  time  as  he  proposed  marriage. 
"  He  argued  that  he  didn't  want  to  influence  you,  dear.  So  I 
promised  to  put  that  right  for  him.  He's  so  absurdly  chival- 
rous, that  big  boy  of  mine.  All  his  brothers  have  had  their 
little  flirtations.  Abe  was  quite  a  social  success,  as  I  daresay 
you  are  aware.  But  Samson,  of  course,  is  the  eldest  of  the 
four;  and  his  grandmother's  favourite;  and  that  is  quite  im- 
portant, as  I  daresay  you  know.     He  always  refused  to  let  a 


190  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

girl  believe  that  he  meant  something  serious  when  he  didn't. 
And  I  think,  my  child,  that  he  was  secretly  waiting  for  you 
to  grow  up." 

"  I'm  twenty-five,"  whispered  Deb  inadequately. 

"My  dear  —  not  really?  I  thought  you  were  at  least  three 
years  younger  than  that.  And  you  have  never  been  in  love  un- 
til now?  " 

How  Cliffe  Kennedy  would  have  let  his  hoyden  invention 
romp  at  this  juncture!  But  Deb  was  too  aghast  at  the  slow 
process  which  was  ringing  her  in,  for  even  the  memory  of  Cliffe 
—  somewhere  in  the  world  —  to  bring  comfort. 

"  I'm  not  in  love  with  your  son,"  she  cried  desperately. 

"That  does  not  matter  at  all."  Mrs.  Phillips  spoke  with 
imyielding  decision.  "  Samson  has  a  very  high  ideal  of  wife- 
hood. He  naturally  will  not  require  you  to  love  him  before 
you  are  married." 

"  Oh !  "  gasped  Deb.  .  .  .  The  point  of  view  was  discon- 
certing; but  Mrs.  Phillips'  apparent  certainty  of  the  wedding 
was  worse  than  disconcerting  —  it  was  terrifying !  "  I,  De- 
borah, take  thee,  Samson "  it  sounded  like  two  Bible  leg- 
ends badly  mixed  up.  .  .  .  She  rallied  her  forces  for  another 
thrust  at  the  Phillips'  illusion;  it  was  perfectly  awful  to  know 
that  it  was  still  there;  that  she  had  done  nothing  as  yet  that 
counted  towards  damaging  it.  "  Mrs.  Phillips  —  please  —  I  — 
I  did  mean  to  say  '  no.'  I'm  not  worthy  of  your  Samson,  in- 
deed I'm  not." 

The  imperturbable  dark-skinned  surface  of  Mrs.  Phillips' 
face  broke  into  a  gleaming  smile. 

"  Now  I  wonder  who's  the  best  judge  of  that,  you  or  he?  " 
Then  more  solemnly:  "  I  assure  you,  my  dear  little  girl,  all 
that  matters  is  that  you  should  make  him  happy." 

Deb's  rebellion  shot  up  to  hollyhock  height  as  she  reflected: 
"  They  take  it  for  granted  that  he'll  make  me  happy.  .  .  . 
Oh,  but  he  would,  if  I  were  the  Suitable  Sort.  All  the  hateful- 
ness  of  refusing  him  over  again.  .  .  ." 

"Do  you  mind,  Deborah,  if  I  make  a  remark  on  the  way 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  191 

you  do  your  hair?  It  is,  forgive  me  if  I  am  rude  —  so  very 
unbecoming.  A  young  girl  should  always  strive  to  make  the 
best  of  herself,  you  know.  Beatrice," —  as  her  daughter  came 
in  with  an  enquiring  air  of  is-it-all-right-now — "I  was  just 
telling  Deborah  how  we  all  wish  she  would  change  her  style 
of  hairdressing." 

Mrs.  Phillips'  inflexion  of  the  word  "  all  "  crushed  Deb  back 
again  on  to  the  pouffe,  whence  she  had  deprecatingly  risen. 
All  .  .  .  she  heard  the  entire  Phillips  family  owning  her,  re- 
modelling her,  chanting  as  in  chorus:  "How  we  wish  Deb 
would  change  her  style  of  hairdressing!  " 

"  Let  me  try  how  she  looks  with  it  done  like  mine,"  ex- 
claimed Beatrice  brightly.  "  May  I,  Deb  —  just  for  fun?  I'm 
supposed  to  have  a  way  with  hair  " —  she  began  to  pull  out  the 
hairpins.  "  Oh,  what  masses  —  look,  mother.  I  think  it's  de- 
lightfully quaint  the  way  you  tuck  it  under  like  a  boy,  but  it 
seems  rather  a  shame  that  nobody  should  guess  what  a  quantity 
you  have,  doesn't  it?  Hardy  says  a  woman's  crown  of 
glory  is  her  hair." 

"  No,  Samson  said  that,"  Deb  corrected  dreamily.  She  knew 
that  Hardy  Redbury  spoke  rarely,  but  with  a  certain  caustic 
originality. 

"  I  believe  it  was  Samson !  "  Beatrice  and  her  mother  ex- 
changed meaning  glances  of  delight.  So  Deb  recognized  the 
utterances  of  the  beloved! 

"There  —  what  do  you  say  to  that?  "  and  Beatrice  stepped 
back  a  pace  or  two  while  Mrs.  Phillips  hovered  round  the  vic- 
tim. ..."  A  little  more  off  the  forehead  and  ears,"  she  pro- 
nounced ;  "  she  has  such  nice  little  ears ;  so  why  not  show 
them?  " 

Deb,  accustomed  to  the  thick  tumble  of  hair  to  her  eyebrows, 
and  its  warm  cluster  round  her  cheeks,  stared  aghast  at  her 
scalped  and  naked  renaissance  in  the  hand-glass  Beatrice  held 
up  for  her  benefit.  She  might  have  cried  with  the  famous  sav- 
age who  was  asked  why  he  did  not  feel  the  stress  of  the  weather 
upon  his  person :    "  Me  all  face!  " 


192  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  Doesn't  she  look  sweet?  "  Beatrice  cried.  And  Mrs.  Phil- 
lips assented  with  less  of  majesty  than  usual :  "  It  does  indeed 
make  a  difference." 

"  Come  down  and  let  Sa the  others  see !  "     Deb  was 

urged  to  the  door  and  down  the  stairs,  and  pushed  into  the 
drawing-room,  where  by  now  the  whole  party  were  assembled. 

"  How  do  you  like  her?  " 

Truly  abashed,  head  hanging,  cheeks  a  crimson  blaze,  the 
girl  stood  just  inside  the  doorway,  while  the  expected  chorus 
smote  her  unmuffled  hearing: 

"  Hullo  .  .  .  Beatrice  at  her  old  games.  ...  By  Jove,  what 
a  change!  So  she  has  got  ears,  has  she?  I  often  wondered. 
.  .  .  Greedy  little  Delilah!  all  that  hair,  and  then  wanting  Sam- 
son's into  the  bargain !  .  .  .  Turn  round  —  no,  slowly.  .  .  . 
It  does  suit  you.  Deb  —  you  must  always  wear  it  like  that.  .  .  ." 

"Do  you  consider  it  an  improvement,  Samson?  "  enquired 
Samson's  mother. 

"Yes." 

She  could  feel  his  eyes  upon  her  —  eyes  of  hot  proprietor- 
ship —  and  knew  all  the  sensations  of  the  slave-girl  exploited 
in  the  market-place  for  critical  appraisement.  The  veiling  had 
been  ripped  from  large  tracts  of  her  person,  leaving  them  bare 
—  bare.  .  .  .  Deb,  who  could  be  quite  happily  unembarrassed, 
even  unconscious,  when  the  delicious  cream-white  slenderness 
of  her  limbs  was  exposed  to  view,  who  would  not  have  minded 
a  whit  any  haphazard  spectator  of  her  evening  bath,  cheek 
rubbed  contentedly  against  her  own  satiny  damp  shoulder, 
loving  the  huddled  contact.  Deb  now  underwent  sheer  agony  at 
the  novelty  of  stark  forehead,  ears,  and  nape  of  the  neck.  The 
erection  on  top  of  her  head  felt  rickety,  top-heavy;  all  the 
separate  hairs  dragged  the  wrong  way,  as  hair  is  prone  to  do 
when  forced  out  of  its  groove;  the  Phillips'  went  on  exclaim- 
ing, suggesting,  twisting  her  about  and  around,  trying  the 
effects  of  her  hat  on  the  new  coiffure.  .  .  .  And  it  was  not  so 
difficult  to  refuse  Samson  when,  on  the  way  home,  he  proposed 
to  her  for  the  second  time. 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  193 

m 

"  And  now  I  shall  never  see  him  again." 

A  week  later  came  a  formal  invitation  from  Mrs.  Phillips 
bidding  Deb  to  dinner. 

Nightmare  .  .  .  and  really  nightmare,  this.  One  lops  ofif 
a  head  and  it  promptly  grows  again;  or  hits  out  ever  so  many 
times  at  a  malignant  beast-face  and  hits  .  .  .  past  it.  And  it 
pushes  itself  nearer.  .  .  .  What  was  the  good  of  refusing 
Samson,  if  something  in  his  temperament  was  blank  to  re- 
fusals? And  she  could  not  stay  away,  with  the  knowledge 
that  in  Sussex  Gardens  the  Phillips'  illusion  was  still  large 
and  benign  and  unmutilated  .  .  .  illusion  that  she  and  Samson 
were  to  be  married.  A  smooth,  shiny  illusion,  like  a  forehead 
bared  of  its  tumble  of  fringe.  .  .  . 

Something  drastic  had  to  be  done  to  it.  She  would  have  to 
accept  the  invitation  to  dinner,  and  sit  at  that  seat  at  that  table 
in  that  room  .  .  .  and  watch  the  teeth  flashing  and  gleaming 
.  .  .  hear  again  the  joke  about  Samson  shorn  of  his  strength 
by  Delilah  ...  be  approved  as  one  of  the  family  by  Mrs. 
Phillips  .  .  .  and  feel  Samson's  eyes  of  fanatic  proprietorship 
fixed  upon  her  while  she  gulped  down  her  favourite  pudding. 
She  would  have  to  go,  because  the  worse  alternative  was  to 
remain  in  ignorance  of  just  how  much  she  was  still  engaged 
to  Samson.  And  perhaps  after  dinner  she  would  find  another 
way  of  beating  in  her  cry  of  freedom  upon  his  unreceptive- 
ness.  But  she  was  not  very  hopeful  of  this.  .  .  .  She  was 
ifrightened.  .  .  .  The  Phillips  were  altogether  too  much  for  her. 

However,  the  nightmare  did  not  precisely  repeat  itself. 
There  was  no  flash  and  gleam  of  white  teeth  round  the  table; 
but  instead  long  sombre  faces;  Samson  the  centre  of  commiser- 
ating solicitude.  An  oppressive  atmosphere  of  reproach  di- 
rected towards  Deb;  the  second  refusal  could  not  be  thrown  ofl" 
as  lightly  as  the  first.  Ultimate  results,  no  doubt,  would  be  the 
same  .  .  .  inconceivable  that  the  eldest  son  of  the  tribe  should 
not  have  the  maiden  of  his  choice.     But  meanwhile  the  maiden 


194  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

was  giving  trouble  .  .  .  how  dared  she?  Mrs.  Phillips  had 
much  ado  to  keep  the  hatred  from  her  eyes  every  time  she 
brooded  down  the  table  at  Deb.  What  better  match  could  she 
want  than  Samson?  Samson,  with  his  splendid  looks,  and  his 
grandmother's  fortune,  and  his  loyal  unwavering  affection. 
The  affection  of  a  good  Jew  who  would  give  her  a  comfortable 
home.  .  .  .  Obviously  the  girl  was  coquetting  —  testing  her 
power  —  and  making  Samson  suffer.  She  deserved  to  be 
whipped  .  .  .  making  Samson  suffer.  And  a  mother  in  such 
a  crisis  must  control  her  primitive  longings  to  use  force  upon 
stubborn  opposition  —  to  take  Deb  and  throw  her  imder  Sam- 
son's feet  — "  There  —  to  do  what  you  like  with.  .  .  .  And 
now,  sleep  again  and  eat  again  and  smile  again  .  .  .  my  son 
.  .  .  my  son.  .  .  ." 

Deb  understood  all  this,  understood  and  was  passionately 
sorry  for  the  irritable  disappointed  heart  that  craved  for  Sam- 
son's babies  to  worship  as  none  of  the  grandchildren  had  ever 
yet  been  worshipped,  and  cursed  her  for  her  perverseness  in 
refusing  birth  to  this  small  dark-skinned  Samson.  She  wished 
she  did  not  understand  quite  so  well.  Had  she  been  wholly  an 
outsider,  she  could  have  dealt  her  wound,  and  jigged  away. 
Or  had  she  been  wholly  in  spirit  one  of  these  people,  then 
what  romance  in  the  prospect  of  just  such  a  home  and  babies! 
But  betwixt  and  between  ...  a  laughing  vagabond  soul  who 
could  ache  in  every  fibre  for  the  sorrows  of  a  Jewish  mother; 
light  flying  heels  that  yet  lingered  for  their  owner  to  look 
back  regretf uly  on  anchorage  —  a  very  unsatisfactory  blend 
.  .  .  and,  oh,  what  was  going  to  happen  after  the  interminable 
dinner? 

After  dinner,  a  series  of  weighty  manoeuvres  left  Deb  alone 
with  Samson  in  the  small  boudoir. 

"What  I  want  to  know  —  what  I  feel  you  ought  to  tell  me 
—  is  why  won't  you  marry  me?  "  The  question  lifted  itself 
from  his  glucose  despondency. 

Could  he  be  made  to  see? — "Because  —  because  —  oh, 
Samson,  we're  so  utterly  different." 

"  Is  that   reason   one?     Look  at  Abe  and   Martha  —  how 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  195 

quiet  she  is,  and  he's  such  a  lively  fellow,  and  yet  they  couldn't 
be  happier." 

"  But  they  belong  to  the  same  world  —  their  code,  their 
creed  —  and  we  don't.  Quiet  and  lively  is  only  on  top.  You 
think  things  wrong  that  I  think  right,  and  the  other  way  about." 

"There  is  no  such  thing  as  thinking  things  right  or  wrong, 
Deb.     They  are  right  or  wrong." 

"Well  —  there  you  are!"  eagerly.  Perhaps  by  patient 
wriggling  she  could  twist  her  way  out  of  this  earth-tunnel,  in- 
stead of  by  one  volcanic  eruption.  "  I'd  be  frightened  to  be- 
lieve that.     It's  too  simple.  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  believe  right  which  I  believe  wrong?  " 

She  could  not  tabulate.     And  remained  silent. 

*'  There,  you  see!  "  conclusively. 

"  If  you  married  me,"  he  persisted,  "  I'd  give  you  every  sin- 
gle thing  you  wanted  "—  with  a  mental  reservation  that  his 
promise  naturally  did  not  include  the  things  that  were  unfit  for 
her. 

She  twisted  in  another  direction.  "You  don't  like  my 
friends." 

"  No.  They're  not  real.  Deb.  And  you  won't  like  them 
either  when  you  learn  that  they're  not  real.  Nothing  unwhole- 
some can  be  real.  I  don't  care  how  clever  they  are  —  I've  no 
respect  for  cleverness  or  art " 

"  Not  the  '  Faerie  Queene '?  "  innocently. 

"  That's  wholesome.  It  has  a  sound  moral.  But  your  Bo- 
hemians .  .  .  they're  not  good.  Not  good  or  kind.  That's  all 
that  matters  —  goodness  and  kindness." 

"  They  are,"  obstreperously.  "  Bohemians  are  notoriously 
kinder-hearted  and  more  generous  than  Philistines." 

The  man  smiled.  "  Yes,  call  me  a  Philistine.  I'm  proud 
of  it.  But  you  don't  understand.  Deb.  How  much  time  does 
an  artist  give  her  husband  or  her  children  or  her  home?  " 

"  Her  temperament  needs  variety,  I  suppose." 

Samson  closed  his  mouth  firmly ;  he  was  not  going  to  discuss 
temperament  with  Deb,  who  mercifully  did  not  know  what  she 
was  talking  about. 


196  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  I  wouldn't  let  you  be  dull,  little  girl,  if  that's  what  you're 
afraid  of.     We  could  travel." 

"  Together  or  separately?  " 

He  laughed  at  the  joke.  "  And  you  wouldn't  want  to  see  so 
much  of  your  friends  .  .  .  we're  a  very  united  family,  you 
know,  and  Beatrice  and  Flo  and  Martha  are  always  together." 

A  very  united  family  —  God,  yes ! 

"So  we've  disposed  of  obstacle  number  one";  Samson's 
spirits  were  rising  rapidly.  (But  how  have  we  disposed  of  it? 
thought  Deb.)      "  Come  now,  what's  obstacle  number  two?  " 

"  It's  because  you're  such  a  united  family  " —  she  struggled 
hard  to  find  expressive  words  — "  that  you  owe  it  to  them  to 
put  the  right  sort  of  girl  in  the  spare  place.  Don't  you  see, 
oh,  don't  you  see,  Samson,  that  I  should  spoil  the  cantata." 

"  But  they  like  you  tremendously,  little  girl ;  mother  and 
Beatrice  are  awfully  fond  of  you.  And  when  you  get  to  know 
Flo  and  Martha  and  Gwen " 

"  It's  no  good.  I  should  make  you  wretched.  Oh  —  why 
do  you  want  .  .  .  just  me?  " 

"  You  are  the  embodiment  of  the  qualities  I  most  admire  in 
a  woman." 

And  he  believed  it,  too.  And  was  unaware  that  it  was  some 
elusive  pixie  element  about  the  girl  —  a  subtle  swing  of  move- 
ment, a  freshness  thrilling  in  her  voice,  some  fleeting  curving 
trick  of  her  lip  and  eyelids,  a  scornful  daintiness  which  were 
magic  to  his  manhood,  and  which  would  haunt  him  and  escape 
him,  trip  up  his  senses  and  beckon  him  on  again  .  .  .  that  it 
was  this  which,  subconsciously,  kept  him  persistent  for  just 
Deb,  and  no  other  girl.  But  he  was  sincere  enough,  talking 
rubbish  about  embodiment  of  qualities.  This  was  her  pixiness, 
translated  into  Samsonese. 

Deb  sighed.  "  One  would  suppose  you  wanted  to  be  tor- 
mented for  all  the  rest  of  your  life." 

"  In  what  special  ways  are  you  so  determined  to  torment 
me?  "  he  teased  her. 

"  Everything  can't  be  drawn  up  in  lists.  ...  I  should  get 
restless  moods,  and  want  to  do  all  sorts  of  things  that  you'd 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  197 

think  funny  or  mad  or  imprudent  —  or  unnecessary,  and  I 
should  want  to  do  them  there  and  then  and  at  once  .  .  .  with- 
out thinking  them  over.  And  I  shall  hate  being  asked  ques- 
tions, and  turn  sulky  over  answering  them.  And  I'd  go  away 
without  you,  and  forget  to  write.  And  ask  for  a  latch-key. 
And  invite  people  to  see  me  whom  you  aren't  sure  are  the  right 
sort,  and  discuss  topics  that  you're  quite  sure  are  the  wrong 
sort.  And  shock  your  mother  by  not  taking  enough  interest 
in  little  Fanny.  And  get  furiously  excited  over  a  book  or  a  pic- 
ture or  a  bit  of  verse  or  a  face  or  —  or  .  .  .  the  way  a 
studio  is  arranged,  or  the  first  summer  day  in  March,  before 
any  one  expected  it  .  .  .  the  first  day  that  one  can  fling  one's 
self  down  on  to  warm  green  grass  and  lie  there  .  .  .  and  lie 
there  dreaming.  .  .  ." 

The  byway  of  argument  was  fatal.  She  had  forgotten  that 
Samson  had  a  corner  in  Nature. 

At  once  he  rushed  into  enthusiastic  confirmation;  ignoring 
the  former  part  of  her  speech  except  for  a  soothing  remark  to 
the  effect  that  she'd  be  bound  to  settle  down  —  as  soon  as  she 
had  a  household  of  her  own. 

"  I'd  rather  die  than  settle  down,"  breathed  Deb  —  to  the 
defiant  youth  in  her.     Samson  did  not  hear. 

"  You're  quite  good  enough  for  me,  little  girl,"  thinking 
she  had  been  sufficiently  chaffed,  and  the  moment  had  come  to 
strike  a  more  serious  note.  "  Quite  good  enough.  Run  your- 
self down  as  much  as  you  please,  nothing  you  can  say  will  make 
any  difference!  " 

No,  nothing  she  could  say  would  make  any  difference,  or  rid 
him  of  the  supposition  that  she  was  merely  deprecating  —  a 
prey  to  modesty.  .  .  . 

"  I'm  different  —  not  worse  nor  better.  We  can't  either  of 
us  be  too  good  or  too  bad  for  each  other  if  we're  different." 

"  Very  well,  then,  you're  right,  we're  different.     Don't  let's 

say  another  word  about  it "     He  smothered  her  uprising 

vehemence  with  a  genial  pretence  of  humouring  her.  "  I  give 
in.  I'm  entirely  wrong.  Have  it  your  own  way.  We're  as 
different  as  you  please.     And  now,  shall  I  call  mother  and  the 


198  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

others,  and  tell  her  it's  all  right,  and  that  we've  made  it  up?  " 

"  No,  please  don't,"  she  whispered.  Her  vitality  was  worn 
out  from  the  struggle. 

He  turned  back  from  the  door,  disappointed.  "  Deb  —  is 
there  another  man?  " 

"  No,"  again.  K  only  there  had  been  some  one,  that  she 
could  have  rung  out  a  triumphant  yes. 

Phillips  was  relieved;  but  knitted  his  brows  anew  over  the 
problem  of  her  obduracy.  Then  he  asked  her  if  she  would 
marry  him  (a)  "  If  I  win  the  V.C.  at  the  Front?  (6) "  K  I  knew 
more  about  pictures?  (c)  "  If  I  were  more  lively?  " 

She  shook  her  head  at  each  tabulated  item.  But  how  queer, 
how  pitifully  queer  that  he  should  dream  he  could  be  persever- 
ingly  refitted  for  her  love  as  for  a  suit  of  clothes  which  re- 
quired slight  alteration. 

"  I've  never  cared  for  any  one  but  you.  Deb.  Never.  Other 
fellows  might  say  that  and  not  mean  it  —  but  it's  true  in  my 
case.  You  can  ask  Beatrice,  or  mother.  Or  Abe  —  he  always 
used  to  chaff  me  for  not  letting  myself  be  plagued  with  girls. 
So  you  needn't  be  jealous  —  you're  my  first  love,  and  I'm 
thirty-one." 

Calf-love,  then.  ...  No  wonder  he  blundered  at  every  move. 
But  he  ought  to  have  got  that  phase  over  long  ago.  Calf-love, 
moon-love  .  .  .  pretty  enough  from  a  lad  of  twenty-one;  but 
from  thirty-one  you  expect  a  man's  defter  handling.  "  You 
needn't  be  jealous."  Should  she  tell  him  her  fervent  wish  that 
some  suave  brilliant  woman  had  indeed  shaped  him  for  present 
enlightenment?  Deb  had  no  ambition  to  be  instructress.  .  .  . 
But  he  would  not  believe  her  .  .  .  impregnated  as  he  was  with 
his  theory  of  female  psychology. 

"All  girls  say  *no'  when  they  mean  *yes';  all  girls  like 
to  pretend  they're  not  worthy;   all  girls  are  jealous  of  the 

other  woman  in  a  fellow's  past;  all  girls "  Deb  was  too 

tired  to  combat  the  "  all-girls  "  convention. 

She  stood  up :  "I  want  to  go  home,  Samson."  And  he 
stood  directly  facing  her.  ...  A  presentiment  seized  her  that 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  199 

he  was  going  to  crush  her  in  his  arms.     Perhaps,  if  he  did  — 
but  no. 

"  I  shall  always  be  waiting  for  you  when  you  want  me,  little 
girl.  I  don't  change,  you  know.  Hope  and  wait  —  that's  go- 
ing to  be  my  motto!  "  He  straightened  his  shoulders  and 
pulled  down  his  tunic  and  smiled  at  her. 

Her  hands  flew  up  as  though  to  push  away  a  suffocating 
pressure.  A  past  that  held  her  only,  the  encompassing  present 
—  and  now  he  claimed  the  future  as  well.  ..."  It's  so  heavy," 
murmured  Deb.  He  must  not  be  allowed  to  wait  for  her  — 
he  must  not.  Could  no  word,  no  act  of  hers  shrivel  the  Phil- 
lips' illusion?  Besides  .  .  .  there  were  moods  which  might 
assail  her,  driven,  persecuted  moods  that  cried  for  anchorage; 
soft  drowsy  Oriental  moods,  when  for  sheer  languor  one  might 
yield  —  neither  of  these  moods  ought  to  be  open  to  the  peril 
of  a  Samson  waiting  and  hoping. 

"  It's  no  good,  Samson,"  with  ebbing  conviction.  And  she 
hated  his  persistence  —  until  she  saw  his  eyes,  dogged  with 
misery,  eager  with  the  want  of  her. 

"  Then  may  I  —  I  wonder  if  you  would  grant  me  a  last 
favour?  The  victim  at  the  block,  you  know,"  stumbling  over 
a  laugh. 

She  knew  what  was  coming.  .  .  . 

"  I  wonder  —  if  you  will  let  me  kiss  you  —  just  once?  " 

And  because  she  had  hurt  him,  and  could  make  no  other 
amends,  and  because  she  was  ashamed  it  was  such  a  trifle  in 
importance  to  her;  and  because  Deb  could  never  bear  to  be 
avaricious  of  her  chastity,  she  said :     "  Yes,  if  you  like." 

He  was  very  deliberate  and  careful  about  it,  with  continual 
sideway  glances  at  her,  as  though  in  fear  permission  would  be 
retracted.  The  kiss  itself  .  .  .  well,  it  was  quite  obvious  that 
Samson  had  been  speaking  truth  when  he  asserted  that  Deb 
was  his  first  love.  She  clenched  her  hands  tightly  and  endured 
...  it  was  soon  over!  But  a  curious  change  had  come  over 
Samson.     Metaphorically,  he  began  to  strut. 

*'  Ah !     I  feel  I've  advanced  a  step  —  now." 


200  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

Deb  turned  upon  him  in  a  blinding  scatter  of  rage. 

"  Because  I've  allowed  you  to  kiss  me?  Do  you  imagine, 
in  your  fatuous  smug  conceit,  that  it  makes  a  difference,  except 
to  make  me  quite,  quite  sure  —  surer  even  than  I  was  before  — 
that  you're  the  wrong  man?  You  and  your  strictly  honour- 
able intentions,  countenanced  by  the  whole  family!  Why,  do 
you  suppose  the  man  I  loved  would  have  had  to  ask  formal 
permission  for  that  kiss?  — and  that  I  would  measure  him  out 
just  one  at  arm's  length  as  a  dole?  I,  who  know  what  kisses 
can  be.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  I'm  sick  of  pretending  to  be  the  Una 
of  your  private  Faerie  Queene.  It's  men  like  you,  with  minds 
like  yours,  who  make  girls  mean  and  haggling  and  nigglesome. 
What  makes  you  imagine  that  if  I  hold  out  a  piece  of  my 
face  towards  you  .  .  .  just  because  .  .  .  because  ..."  a  sob 
of  sheer  anger  gulping  up  between  the  words  ..."  because 
you  asked,  and  I  wanted  to  be  decent,  and  didn't  care  much 
one  way  or  another,  what  makes  you  dare  to  feel  that  you've 
'  advanced  a  step  '?     You  haven't!  —  not  a  quarter  of  one!  " 

"  Very  well  —  I  haven't  —  we'll  say  I  haven't  —  I  give  in  — 
you're  quite  right  —  I  haven't  advanced  — are  you  satisfied 
now?  "  Again  that  futile  pretence  of  placating  her.  But: 
"Kisses  .  .  ."  she  whispered,  dreamily,  unheeding  him, 
"kisses  .  .  .  like  a  shower  of  stars  on  my  lips.  Stars  that 
burn.  .  .  ." 

Unconvinced  of  his  error,  he  stated  pompously :  "  I  treated 
you  with  the  respect  which  is  due  to  a  good  girl,  Deb." 

Her  smile  subtly  mocked  him.  "  Ah,  but  you  see,  I  have  — 
not  —  been  —  good." 


CHAPTER   VII 


BUT  ClifFe  Kennedy  was  indubitably  to  blame.  No  one 
could  spend  so  much  time  with  ClifFe  as  Deb  had  done 
of  late,  without  echoing  his  tendency  to  achieve  a  climax 
at  whatever  cost.  His  sense  of  dramatic  effect  abhorred  a 
vacuum.  Deb  had  caught  the  trick,  that  was  all.  She  was  al- 
ways impressionable.  "  I  have  treated  you  with  the  respect 
due  to  a  good  girl  .  .  ."  and  then  the  pause  —  and,  spoken  al- 
most mechanically,  her  curtain  line. 

"Well  — he  asked  for  it!" 

The  drawback  to  these  histrionic  displays  in  ordinary  life, 
however,  is  lack  of  the  aforesaid  curtain.  Certainly  it  should 
have  fallen  at  that  juncture:  "  You  see,  I  have  not  been 
good  .  .  ."  and  Act  III  a  fortnight  later.  .  .  .  Meanwhile,  Deb 
and  Samson  remained  looking  at  one  another,  in  Mrs.  Phillips' 
boudoir,  her  head  proudly  tilted,  so  that  the  little  three-cor- 
nered face  was  fore-shortened  to  an  upcurling  of  black  eye- 
lashes, and  mouth  a  mutinous  half-crescent,  the  corners  trem- 
bling to  a  smile  sternly  chidden  back  again  — "  This  is  seri- 
ous! " — but  the  irrepressible  desire  persisted.  ,  .  .  Samson's 
expression  was  such  a  marvel  of  Pharisaic  indignation  and 
disgust. 

"  So  much  for  the  charity  of  a  good  man's  love!  Why, 
supposing  it  had  been  true  and  I  wanted  him  to  forgive  me?  " 

In  Samson  Phillips'  mind  was  no  doubt  of  the  statement 
which  had  shattered  his  rock-embedded  belief  in  the  immac- 
ulate chastity  of  a  well  brought  up  Jewish  girl  of  his  own  set. 
.  .  .  The  argument:  "  Why  should  she  say  such  a  thing  if  it 
weren't  true?  "  was  too  obviously  undeniable  for  admittance. 
And  Deb  could  have  explained  to  him  neither  the  contagious 

201 


202  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

peculiarity  of  Mr.  Cliffe  Kennedy,  nor  the  fact  that  the  Phillips' 
family  and  the  thrice  persistent  proposal  had  rendered  her 
hysterical. 

Well  —  now  at  least  she  was  free.  Samson  would  never 
again  desire  her  for  his  wife.  Mrs.  Phillips  would  never  again 
invite  her  to  dinner.  Although  Deb  had  chosen  a  drastic 
method  of  dealing  with  undesirable  invitations  to  dinner  or  to 
the  altar  — "  do  they  have  altars  in  a  Synagogue?  I  forget 
.  .  .  but  oh,  I  wish  he  would  speak  before  I  laugh!  " 

But  Samson's  principles,  against  which  in  sheer  despair  she 
had  flung  her  falsehood,  stood  rigid  and  undamaged,  like  so 
many  spear-tipped  railings.  Henceforth,  Deb  was  to  him  an 
outcast.  He  looked  at  her  .  .  .  and  then  he  went  to  the  door 
and  called  his  mother,  and  told  her  Deb  was  not  feeling  very 
well  and  wanted  to  return  home  at  once. 

Mrs.  Phillips  gathered  from  his  expression  that  "  that  girl  '* 
had  flouted  him  again.  Deb  was  sent  home  in  a  taximeter  and 
an  atmosphere  of  black  disgrace.  Samson's  one  look  had  re- 
minded her  of  a  Roundhead  soldier  —  Oliver  Cromwell  him- 
self. What  a  fate  to  have  escaped  —  Cromwell's  wife,  Crom- 
well's family.     And  a  Jewish  Cromwell  into  the  bargain! 

"  But  will  he  tell  —  anybody?  " 

"What  does  it  matter!  " 

An  impulse  of  sheer  mischief  —  then  swift  contrition  —  in- 
tense relief  —  and  the  usual  shoulder-shrug.  This  was  the 
wheel  of  Deb's  psychology.  Several  days  later  she  told  An- 
tonia  of  the  debacle.  Antonia  had  meanwhile  been  out  of  town, 
driving  her  Major-General. 

"Samson  would  never  have  done  for  you,  of  course.  But 
you  encouraged  him,  Deb.     Why?  " 

"I  didn't,"  sunnily;  "  I  just  wanted  to  try  if  I  could  make 
myself  good  enough.     And  I  pulled  it  oflf  —  for  a  fortnight." 

"  And  then,  in  one  well-chosen  lie  —  Deb,  I  love  you  very 
dearly,  but  your  creed  is  beyond  all  following.  It  seems  to 
me  to  consist  mainly  of  a  lot  of  trouble  for  nothing." 

"  I  just  wanted  to  try,"  Deb  repeated.  "  I  might  have  been 
good  enough,  you  know.     And  if  the  clock  had  struck  while 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  203 

I  was  pulling  that  face,  I'd  have  stopped  like  that.  So  Nurse 
used  to  say." 

"  Meaning  —  if  you  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  good  man  at 
the  psychological  moment  of  trying  to  be  good.  You're  too 
accommodating  altogether,  my  child.  Suppose  it  were  a  bad 
man,  and  the  clock  struck  while  you  were  pulling  that  face?  " 

Deb  went  to  the  mirror,  and  tried  on  the  two  faces,  one 
after  another.  "Which  becomes  me  best?"  she  demanded 
anxiously,  "  Puritan  or  rogue?  Oh,  Antonia,  it  was  such  fun 
busting  the  Phillips'  illusion.  I  shall  never  have  such  fun 
again." 


Samson  was  sent  to  the  Front  shortly  afterwards.  And 
Beatrice  confided  in  her  mother-in-law,  Trudchen  Redbury, 
her  amazement  that  any  girl  could  so  far  lose  her  reason  as 
thrice  to  refuse  a  match  like  Samson  Phillips :  "  She  must  have 
said  something  to  upset  him  badly,  that  last  time  —  but  he 
won't  say  what;  he  seemed  heart-broken,  poor  fellow  .  .  .  and 
going  off  like  that,  too,  without  any  hope.     How  could  she?  " 

Trudchen  also  wondered  how  Deb  possibly  could  .  .  .  and 
discussed  the  matter  with  Otto,  who  was  thus  at  last  brought 
face  to  face  with  the  failure  of  his  cherished  notion  of  a  mar- 
riage between  his  little  daughter  Nell,  and  an  officer  in  the  Brit- 
ish army:    "  He  vanted  Ferdinand's  Teporah?     Ach  wass!  but 

I  thought  she  and  that  yong  Gennedy "     He  remembered 

how  the  insolent  pair  had  "  called  "  on  the  Redburys  one 
Sunday  afternoon,  for  all  the  world  as  though  they  were  en- 
gaged. And  then  had  followed  Cliffe's  confidence  in  the  train 
.  .  .  the  name  left  chivalrously  blank  .  .  .  and  not  feeling  at 
all  friendly  towards  Deb,  who  had  robbed  him  of  an  English 
son-in-law,  Otto,  by  sudden  malignant  inspiration,  inserted  her 
name  into  the  blank,  and  was  instantly  convinced  of  the  cor- 
rectness of  his  guess :  "  So !  and  zat  vos  vy  she  refused  Vil- 
lips!  " 

Otto  sucked  at  his  lips,  very  gravely  .  .  .  genuinely  shocked 
and  bufifeted  by  the  revelation  that  a  maiden  of  the  same  race 


204  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

and  class  and  upbringing  as  his  own  daughter,  could  so  step 
aside  from  virtue.  But  then  he  ceased  sucking,  blew  out  his 
cheeks  .  .  .  and  ruminated.  .  .  . 

That  poor  Ferdinand:  with  all  his  eccentric  notions  of 
rearing  a  young  girl,  one  must  yet  be  sorry  for  him.  His 
daughter  was  no  better  than  a  —  than  a  —  Otto  hesitated  be- 
tween a  rich  selection  of  epithets  in  two  languages. 

One  must  be  sorry  for  Ferdinand.  But  it  was  a  pity  that 
he  should  not  know  that  there  was  a  cause  why  one  was  sorry 
for  him —  (Ferdie  had  always  been  the  successful  partner  in 
the  days  when  Nash,  Marcus  and  Rothenburg  had  still  existed 
as  a  firm) ....  Bread  and  water  and  a  locked  room  would  do 
the  minx  good. 

And  in  addition  to  all  this.  Otto  was  sufiSciently  akin  in 
spirit  to  both  Cliffe  and  Deb  to  relish  the  notion  of  dramatic 
tidings  —  himself  as  a  sort  of  Messenger  in  Greek  drama. 

"  If  I  do  not  tell  Ferdinand  Marcus,  then  zertainly  another 
will  do  so " 

Which  again  would  be  a  pity.  Otto  decided  not  to  risk  fore- 
stalment. 

HI 

At  the  first  shiver  of  Autumn,  grandfather  had  a  bad  bron- 
chial cold,  which  meant  the  luxury  of  a  fire  in  his  bedroom. 
During  such  a  period  all  the  Marcuses  were  usually  to  be 
found  in  enjoyment  of  this  available  private  warmth,  as  a  rest 
from  the  perpetual  conviviality  of  the  lounge  or  drawing-room 
fires.  True,  it  meant  that  grandfather's  company  was  thrown 
in  with  the  fire  —  but  Stella  and  Ferdie  were  used  to  him,  and 
Deb  and  Richard  thought  him  rather  funny. 

Otto,  when  he  paid  his  visit,  was  received  by  the  three  gen- 
erations of  male  Marcus.  He  requested  that  Richard  be 
ejected,  with  that  lack  of  ceremony  towards  his  juniors  which 
was  so  deplorable  in  the  old-fashioned  relative. 

"  All  right,  Uncle  Otto  —  I  wasn't  going  to  stay,  anyway. 
Where's  David?  " 

David  was  in  a  training-camp.     And :     "  Has  that  boy  of 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  205 

your's  nossing  to  do  but  pite  his  head  off  all  day  long,  Mar- 
cus? "  when  the  door  had  slammed  on  Richard. 

"  As  much  to  do  as  your  son-in-law  Fiirth,"  shouted  Hermann 
with  irascible  emphasis.  "  Or  perhaps  you  do  not  visit  him 
often  enough  to  ascertain  his  occupations?  Herr  Je!  Rothen- 
burg,  he  was  a  good  enough  Schiddach  for  your  daughter  Hed- 
vig  five  years  ago.  .  .  ." 

Otto  did  not  like  being  addressed  as  Rothenburg.  Especially 
as  a  door  behind  the  cupboard  communicated  with  another 
bedroom.     He  glanced  uneasily  that  way.  .  .  . 

"There  is  no  policeman  there,"  his  host  reassured  him. 
"  Our  neighbour  is  a  rabbit  who  calls  himself  a  Special  Con- 
stable, that  is  all.  And  I  am  convinced,  lieber  Rothenburg, 
that  your  naturalization  papers  are  ready  on  your  person  and 
in  complete  order.  Or  —  let  me  see  —  you  are  one  of  those 
that  have  changed  their  names  .  .  .  Redbury,  is  it?  "  the  old 
scoundrel  chuckled  hoarsely.  "  Redbury !  —  poor  old  Fritzie 
Rothenburg  of  Nuremburg  —  your  late  uncle  and  my  friend  — 
that  would  have  amused  him  —  Redbury!  But  you  must  cor- 
rect me  if  I  forget." 

And  all  this,  in  vengeance  for  the  implied  belittling  of 
Richard, 

The  S.C.  could  be  heard  moving  about  among  his  furniture 
.  .  .  and  Otto's  manner  had  not  that  repose  which  stamps  the 
caste  of  Vere  de  Vere  —  he  accompanied  the  old  man's  loud 
discourse  by  an  agonized  hushing,  which  Hermann  heeded  no 
more  than  a  drone  of  a  bluebottle.  From  offensive  English  he 
lapsed  into  friendly  —  too  friendly  —  German,  enquiring  af- 
fectionately after  all  Otto's  relatives  in  Berlin,  Mainz,  Koln  and 
Frankfurt,  mentioning  each  person  by  name  and  address.  And 
when  Otto  affected  ignorance  of  the  existence  of  these,  he 
laughed  and  coughed,  and  coughed  so  much  that  he  was  per- 
force reduced  to  gasping  watery-eyed  silence,  which  gave  Ottc 
his  chance  at  last  for  a  patriotic  panegyric  which  he  trusted 
would  reach  the  "  S.C,"  and  so  nullify  any  evil  effects  of  Her- 
mann's malice.  "  —  My  son  is  in  the  drenches,  and  my  pones 
will  one  day  lie  in  English  ground.     My  money  I  give  for 


206  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

England,  and  England,  I  bray,  may  still  find  a  use  for  an  old 
man's  services,  isn't  it?  " 

"Ach  wass!  "  impatiently  interrupting  the  peroration. 
"You  have  been  learning  by  heart  the  recruiting  posters.  I 
would  advise  a  little  less  noise  about  patriotism,  lieber  Freund. 
You  look  like  an  enemy  spy  who  has  yet  to  learn  not  to  overdo 
his  business.  It  may  bring  you  into  awkward  situations." 
Otto  turned  yellow  and  his  fingers  twitched.  "  Besides,  a  man 
who  cannot  be  loyal  to  his  own  country " 

"  England  is  my  country !  "  cried  Otto  hysterically. 

"  Stuss !  "  and  Hermann  subsided  contemptuously.  While 
Ferdie  broke  in :  "  You  have  neither  of  you  any  sense  at  all. 
It  is  quite  possible,  papa,  not  only  to  be  from  prudence,  but 
also  in  thought  and  from  afi"ection,  loyal  to  an  adopted  coun- 
try, where  one  has  lived,  and  planted  one's  hopes,  and  brought 
up  one's  children.  Would  one  bring  up  one's  children  to  serve 
England  before  even  war  was  in  sight  —  if  still  one  cared  about 
Germany?  But  to  shout  it  about  —  that  is  tactless  nowadays. 
They  do  not  love  the  sound  of  our  voices  —  unpleasant  —  yes, 
certainly  —  but  natural.  Let  us  then  rather  keep  quiet,  you 
and  I,  Redbury.  Papa  I  respect  for  making  no  professions 
where  he  cannot  honestly  feel  them  —  but  he  also  should  keep 
quiet.  You  are  discourteous  to  a  country  of  whom  you  are 
the  guest.  And  also  you  make  things  very  uncomfortable  for 
us  your  family." 

"I  have  no  fear,"  snapped  the  old  autocrat,  sitting  very 
upright. 

"  But  I  have  then,  for  Stella  and  Deb  and  Richard.  So  when 
I  feel  pessimist,  when  my  opinion  is  not  likely  to  be  a  popular 
opinion,  I  keep  it  to  myself.  For  the  difference  between  us 
and  the  British-born  is  this:  there  is,  alas,  no  bias  on  our 
judgments.  That  pleasant  happy  bias!  ah,  it  must  be  repose- 
ful to  let  one's  judgment  roll  with  the  bias;  but  the  bias  is 
lodged  in  the  nature,  and  the  nature  springs  from  the  soil,  and 
the  soil  of  England  is  not  ours  —  we  who  belong  to  no  coun- 
try, and  are  therefore  doomed  to  see  things  exactly  as  they 
are.     I  tell  you,  Redbury,  I  would  give  ten  years  of  my  life 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  207 

to  possess  that  cheery  confidence  that  stupidly,  and  oh,  how 
splendidly,  through  the  blackest  reverses,  through  the  silliest 
muddles  and  incompetence,  still  goes  on  with  their  eternal 
Britannia  rules  the  waves  and  Britons  never,  never,  never  shall 
be  slaves.  ..." 

"  If  you  had  a  son  in  the  drenches,"  repeated  Otto  virtuously. 

And  Ferdie  sighed  and  said  no  more.  In  spite  of  all  the 
daily  suspense  and  anxiety,  how  he  envied  the  Redburys  their 
possession  of  Con.  He  had  not  yet  forgiven  himself  the  mis- 
take which  resulted  in  Richard's  present  mooching,  slouching 
existence,  not  keen  to  go  back  to  school  —  not  worth  while  to 
enter  a  profession  —  waiting  for  his  eighteenth  birthday  to 
bring  him  behind  barbed  wire. 

"  Ferdinand,"  said  Otto  Redbury,  interrupting  the  other 
man's  reverie,  "  I  have  gom  on  a  very  serious  errand.  .  .  ." 

IV 

When  Stella  and  Deb  came  in  to  boil  the  kettle  for  tea,  half- 
an-hour  later,  the  Messenger  was  gone.  Ferdie  was  staring  into 
the  fire,  his  fuzzy  grey  head  bent  down  almost  to  his  knees. 
And  Hermann's  thin  lips  wore  a  cynical  smile  ...  he  had 
waited  for  these  results  of  Deb's  upbringing,  since  a  spoilt 
grandchild  of  eight  years  was  first  brought  to  Munich  for  his 
inspection. 

"  Deb  —  come  here!  " 

Deb  looked  astonished.  She  could  scarcely  ever  remember 
her  father  shouting  at  her.  But  to  Stella  the  sound  was  fa- 
miliar. The  Teuton  disciplinarian  always  begins  by  losing 
control  of  his  voice.  Ferdie,  in  supreme  emotion,  was  reverting 
to  type.  .  .  . 

"  Did  you  spend  a  night "  he  choked  —  then  started  off 

again :  "  Did  you  spend  a  night  with  that  man  Kennedy  at 
his  cottage  in  the  country? — Yes  or  no?  " 

"What's  the  fuss  about?"  asked  Deb,  in  Richard's  most 
casual  manner.  She  thrust  her  hands  deep  into  the  pockets 
of  her  lilac  jersey,  tilted  back  her  chin  .  .  .  and  wished  de- 
voutly she  could  run  away. 


208  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"Yes  or  no?  "  roared  her  father. 

"There  was  no  harm  in  it." 

"  Yes  or  no?  " 

"No.  .  .  ." 

Sheer  whimpering  terror,  this ;  not  of  the  bellow  which  shook 
the  very  furniture,  but  of  the  blaze  in  Ferdie's  wontedly  mild 
brown  eyes. 

"  You  did  not?  "  the  relief  was  so  overwhelming,  his  instant 
trust  in  her  word  so  pathetic,  that  Deb  for  very  shame  quickly 
revoked  her  lie. 

"  Not  in  the  way  you  mean.  Why  are  you  so  ready  to  be- 
lieve .  .  .  girls  and  men  in  our  set  —  the  look  of  things  doesn't 
matter  so  tremendously  any  more  .  .  .  doesn't  matter  at  all  — 

No,  do  listen  to  me "     She  was  honestly  fighting  down  an 

inclination  to  sulk  —  a  defiant  silence,  she  would  have  inter- 
preted the  attitude  — "  I  do  know  what  it  looks  like  to  you,  that 
I  stopped  down  there  with  ClifFe  that  night  —  but  really  and 
truly,"  with  an  appealing  little  smile  — "  I'm  still  Daddy's 
good  girl?  " 

"  Then  why,"  asked  Ferdie,  avoiding  her  smile  — "  why  did 
you  encourage  and  then  refuse  Captain  Phillips?  " 

"  Oh "     Deb  stared  mentally  at  these  two  bits  of  her  — 

yes,  her  silliness,  which  entangled  produced  such  a  formidable 
appearance  against  her.  Could  she  put  herself  right  again? 
Not  without  help.  She  turned  with  quick  confidence  to  her 
aunt. 

"  Auntie  Stel "  and  stopped  as  though  at  a  shock. 

"  I  suppose  you  had  just  enough  decency  left  not  to  deceive 
an  honest  man !  "  Stella's  voice  sounded  as  though  it  had  been 
filed.  She  crossed  from  Deb's  side  to  her  brother,  the  action 
clearly  defining  where  her  support  was  ranged. 

"  Ferdie,"  she  whispered,  for  he  had  sunk  back  to  a  despon- 
dent, shrunken  heap  in  the  arm-chair;  and  his  knees  shook  as 
she  laid  her  hand  on  them  — "  Ferdie,  old  boy.  .  .  ." 

"  Little  Deb  .  .  ."  he  murmured.  Well,  Ferdie  had  always 
been  a  sentimentalist.  And  the  girl,  hearing,  would  have  flung 
herself  at  him,  even  then,  her  arms  tightly  round  his  neck,  to 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  209 

cajole  and  explain,  explain  by  familiar  hugs  and  kisses  .  .  . 
but  Stella  was  between  them.  And  grandfather,  still  with 
that  wooden  smile  jerking  up  the  ends  of  his  moustache.  One 
expected  it  from  grandfather,  but  Auntie  Stel,  always  so  young 
and  jolly  —  Not  quite  the  words — "juvenile  and  vivacious" 
expressed  it  better,  somehow:  "Run  along  and  enjoy  your- 
selves, kiddies.  .  .  ."  Why  was  Stella's  look  at  her  now  like 
the  sting  of  a  wasp?  .  .  .  that  came  of  treating  a  grown-up 
chummily,  and  as  an  equal.  Never  again.  After  all,  she  was 
only  a  maiden  aunt  .  .  .  couldn't  tell  her  so  .  .  .  even  in 
extremes  one  couldn't  say  the  beastliest  thing  of  all  —  evi- 
dently they  could,  though  —  no  code  of  honour  .  .  .  Grown 
ups! 

Deb  hunched  her  shoulders  in  moody  exasperation.  Even  if 
she  had  .  .  .  done  it,  she  never  dreamt  of  this  rasping  encoun- 
ter with  authority.  She,  who  had  even  honoured  her  immedi- 
ate family  by  bragging  about  their  tolerance  and  general  amia- 
bility: "Dad's  an  old  darling  and  Auntie  Stel  a  sport,  and 
nobody  minds  grandfather.  .  .  ." 

She  said :    "  Samson  Phillips  was  a  prig.'* 

"You  will  not  quickly  find  another  man  for  husband, 
my  dear  Deborah,"  Hermann  Marcus  rumbled  menacingly. 
"  You  would  have  been  wiser  to  strive  to  please  Captain 
Phillips." 

Stella  turned  and  sprang,  buried  her  claws  in  his  words. 
"  Husband !  —  do  you  suppose  she  wants  a  husband?  She's 
had  what  she  wants.     Look  at  her !  " 

This,  then,  was  what  had  lain  in  waiting  all  these  years  be- 
tween herself  and  Deb  —  what  extreme  of  love  or  hatred.  That 
Deb  should  have  her  good  time  —  that  was  well  enough;  Stella 
did  not  grudge  it  her;  Stella  helped  her  to  it.  But  that  Deb 
should  stand  there,  in  triumphant  insolent  knowledge  of  —  the 
thing  itself  —  the  older  woman  could  not  bear  that.  Her 
starved  senses  yapped  their  rage  and  envy.  Into  Deb's  very 
poise  as  she  remained  silent  and  aloof  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  Stella  thought  to  read  pity  of  her,  the  virgin,  virgin  by 
fate  and  by  tyranny,  by  cowardice  even,  not  by  desire.  .  .  . 


210  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

Deb,  little  Deb  the  child,  Ferdie's  baby  daughter,  had  trodden 
strange  ground,  and  by  reason  of  this  she  was  altered,  baffling, 
mysterious,  immune  from  scolding,  forbearing  to  taunt  because 
she  could  afford  forbearance  —  what  did  she  want  with  Aunt 
Stella's  partisanship?  she  had  taken  what  Axmt  Stella  had  not 
dared  to  take.  ... 

"Look  at  her!" 

"  Is  there  any  reason,"  grandfather  demanded  impatiently, 
"  why  I  should  sacrifice  my  tea  to  look  at  an  extremely  badly- 
brought-up,  dishonourable  and  wicked  young  lady  who  ought 
to  have  been  married  and  out  of  the  way  long  ago  if  she  had 
owned  a  father  who  could  properly  attend  to  her  interests? 
You  cannot  reproach  me,  lieber  Ferdinand,  that  I  have  not 
warned  you,  over  and  over  again,  what  would  be  the  result  of 
your  loose  and  wicked  lack  of  discipline " 

"  Well,  you  didn't  do  so  very  much  better  with  your  daughter, 
did  you?  "  cried  Deb,  resenting  the  attack  on  her  father's  easy 
kindness,  but  forgetting  that  her  defence  of  him  involved  a  slur 
on  Stella. 

"  I've  kept  my  good  name  at  least,  thank  you,  Deb;  you've 
disgraced  yourself  and  us,  running  to  lick  the  hand  of  any  man 
who  chose  to  call.  I  hope  your  father  will  put  a  stop  to  it  for 
the  future,  anyhow." 

"He?"  Hermann  Marcus  laughed,  and  Ferdinand,  per- 
forming the  proverbial  action  of  shutting  the  stable  door,  went 
further  and  slammed  it  with  all  his  force. 

"You  will  attend  to  me.  Deb,  yes?  I  have  made  a  mistake 
in  trusting  you.  I  let  you  do  as  you  please,  go  where  you 
please,  without  asking  questions,  without  interfering.  I  hoped 
so  to  make  you  happy.  For  the  future  all  that  will  be  changed. 
You  will  not  go  out  in  the  evenings,  nor  to  stay  with  your 
friends.  You  will  account  for  your  time  spent  to  me  or  to  your 
Aunt  Stella.  I  will  see  to  it  that  you  take  lessons  in  some- 
thing, to  occupy  you  usefully.  Less  pocket-money  and  no 
latchkey  —  perhaps  so  we  can  bring  you  back  to  a  sense  of  self- 
respect.  Also  I  will  ask  to  examine  your  correspondence.  Be 
sure  that  it  is  not  with  pleasure  that  I  give  these  orders " 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  211 

He  halted,  hearing  a  poignantly  mocking  echo  of  his  old 
prophecy  to  Dorothea:  "It  will  be  all  right  —  When  one  is 
happy,  one  is  also  good " 

"  I  have  made  the  worst  mistake  with  you,"  he  concluded 
harshly. 

"  Then  I  won't  pay  for  it.  I'll  run  away  —  I'm  not  going  to 
be  spied  on  and  treated  like  a  baby  now,  after  you've  let  me 
do  just  exactly  as  I  like  for  years.  Why  weren't  you  strict  all 
along?  I  thought  you  were  really  broad-minded  —  that  you 
really  thought  a  girl  had  wants  and  claims  .  .  .  that  a  girl  is 
human  .  .  .  and  the  marrying  her  off  business  is  extinct,  and 
that  going  wrong  doesn't  matter  so  much,  after  all."  She  was 
half -crying  now,  but  gulped  fiercely,  and  went  on:  "You  let 
me  suppose  that  you'd  understand  if  I  did  —  anything.  But 
you're  just  exactly  the  same  when  it  comes  to  it  —  the  old- 
fashioned  parent,  ready  with  the  old-fashioned  curse.  Well, 
then,  you  should  have  looked  after  me  in  the  old-fashioned  way. 
You  should  have  done  before  all  that  you  say  you'll  do  now  — 
examined  my  letters  and  disapproved  of  my  friends  and  ques- 
tioned my  comings  and  goings.  What  do  you  suppose  sud- 
denly jerks  a  girl  back,  when  she  has  read  everything,  discussed 

everything,  seen  everything ?     Books  and  plays,  jabber, 

and  other  people's  example  —  answerable  to  nobody.  Why, 
they're  only  preparation  for  —  for  .  .  .  the  rest!  It  wasn't  as 
if  I  was  answerable  to  anybody;  you  never  bothered.  I'd 
rather  have  been  kept  ignorant  and  innocent  —  much  rather, 
dad.  It  isn't  fair  to  bring  me  up  in  the  new  way,  and  then  ex- 
pect me  to  be  good  in  the  old  way." 

"And  it  is  not  fair  to  be  for  ever  instructed  by  one's  chil- 
dren how  one  should  rightly  have  behaved  towards  them!  " 
Ferdinand  was  now  at  the  end  of  his  patience.  "  First  Richard 
and  then  you:  '  Why  didn't  you  do  this?  Why  didn't  you  do 
that?  '  God  in  Heaven,  is  the  parent  a  beast  of  burden  that  all 
your  troubles  and  wrongdoings  should  be  piled  on  to  his  back? 
And  supposing  I  had  scolded  and  worried  you  and  forbidden 

—  then  it  would  have  been  again :     '  You  have  ruined  my  life 

—  a  little  more  liberty,  and  I  need  not  have  been  driven  to  — 


212  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

to  —  behave  like  a  street-girl !  '  Always  the  parent's  fault  — 
you  are  shirkers,  you  who  are  so  proud  to  call  yourselves  a  New 
Generation  —  putting  all  responsibility  on  heredity,  education, 
pre-natal  influence  —  I  know  not  what,  so  long  as  you  safely 
escape  self-reproach  —  so  long  as  you  safely  escape  the  crying 
of  your  own  conscience." 

"  Conscience  is  religion.  I'm  not  religious.  If  I  were  — 
but  you  never  bothered  about  that  either.  I'm  not  Jewess  nor 
Christian  —  I'm  nothing  at  all  —  nothing  —  you  never  both- 
ered." 

"  We  did  bother;  yes  indeed,  but  we  were  afraid  of  bothering 
too  much.     We  wanted  you  to  feel  free." 

"Well  then  —  why?  — now?  "  wavering  to  a  softer  mood. 
When  her  father  spoke  with  just  that  fondness  .  .  .  turning 
aside  her  head  to  blink  back  the  tears,  she  caught  sight  of  his 
old  silk  handkerchief,  plum  and  navy-blue  dabbed  together, 
knotted  round  the  bed-post  in  the  same  way  as  he  was  wont  to 
knot  it  round  his  neck,  as  long  as  she  could  remember.  .  .  . 
And  suddenly  Ferdie  was  dead  —  and  she  saw  that  loop  with 
the  dangling  ends,  and  it  struck  her  painfully  that  she  would 
never  again  see  it  round  Ferdie's  neck,  plum  and  blue  stem  to 
that  genial  rubicund  face  with  the  kind  eyes  .  .  .  Dad  was  dead 
.  .  .  everybody  dies.  .  .  . 

Whether  she  had  been  vouchsafed  a  swift  keyhole  peep  at  an 
inevitable  future,  or  if  the  vision  were  merely  a  childish  drench 
of  sentiment  —  whichever  it  was,  it  sent  Deb  straight  past 
grandfather's  sarcastic  smile  and  Aunt  Stella's  antagonism,  to 
her  knees  beside  Ferdie's  chair  —  snuggled  up  against  him  — 
Thank  God,  he  was  not  dead  yet! 

"  Dad  —  mayn't  I  explain?  " 

He  just  touched  her  black  urchin  head  so  near  his  hand, 
but  said  nothing. 

"  It's  .  .  .  men,"  Deb  began.  Such  a  maze  of  by-ways  and 
turnings,  and  no  centre.  Could  she  ever  hope  to  drag  his  un- 
derstanding in  the  wake  of  her  intricate  journey ings  .  .  .  and 
with  the  others  present?  "  It  was  the  same  in  our  old  set  be- 
fore we  gave  up  Daisybanks,  before  the  war.     ihere  were  al- 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  213 

ways  men  about,  then;  when  they  took  me  on  the  river  in  the 
evenings,  in  a  narrow  punt,  or  in  taxis  —  or  behind  screens  on 
the  landings  at  dances  .  .  .  screens  put  there  generally  by  the 
hostess  —  what  are  they  put  there  for?  'Enjoy  yourselves, 
children!  ' — Dad,  what  did  you  think  then?  You  can't  pos- 
sibly have  imagined  they  all  wanted  to  marry  me,  that  they 
each  wanted  to  marry  every  girl  they  took  behind  screens  or 
up  dark  corridors  —  in  the  Empress  Rooms  or  the  Portman 
Rooms  or  the  Grafton  Galleries  or  Princes?  But  you  must 
have  thought  something!  " 

But  the  trend  of  Ferdie's  ideas  had  always  run  on  generaliza- 
tions .  .  .  and  generalizations  would  not  suffice  now  to  content 
this  daughter  of  his,  turning  up  to  him  such  a  glowing,  inquis- 
itive little  face. 

"  I  was  pleased  that  you  should  have  admirers "  slowly 

— "  Flirtation  is  only  natural  to  a  young  girl." 

"  Admirers !  flirtation !  that,  yes,  but  they  —  they  used  to 
kiss  us  —  they  said  things  —  when  they  got  excited.  .  .  .  They 

—  Oh "  she  rummaged  desperately  after  words  — "  You  — 

you  grown-ups  of  today,  you  took  away  the  chaperon  and  put 
up  a  screen  on  the  landing  instead. —  It  all  means  something  — 
leads  somewhere  —  and  then  you  lose  your  tempers  when  you 
hear  —  when  we.  .  .  .  And  I  didn't !  I  didn't  do  anything  — 
this  time.  .  .  .  But  I  must  have  something  to  go  by;  you  must 
spell  us  out  the  rules  once  and  for  all.  You're  broad-minded, 
you  encourage  us  —  expose  us;  and  at  the  end  of  it  all,  last 
century's  row  comes  tumbling  on  our  heads.     If  grandfather 

was  a  beast  to  Auntie  Stel "  a  darted  sun-flash  of  mischief 

at  the  gathering  storm  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fireplace  — 
"  at  least  he  was  a  consistent  beast;  allowed  her  to  know  noth- 
ing and  do  nothing.  You've  stuck  half-way  —  you  let  me 
know  everything  and  do  nothing.  One  day,  I  suppose,  a  girl 
will  be  allowed  to  know  everything  and  do  everything  — 
lucky  her!  " 

The  storm  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  mantelpiece  broke  into 
thunder:  "Klatsch!  klatsch!  klatsch!  talk!  talk!  talk! — 
Had  it  been  Stella  to  be  found  out  in  shame " 


214  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"Leave  me  out  of  it,  papa.  And  you  too,  Deb,"  Stella 
threw  in  curtly,  without  turning  from  the  window  where  she 
stood  looking  out  into  the  dripping  dusk.  "  I'm  not  ambitious 
to  figure  as  an  edifying  example." 

"  Had  it  been  Stella,"  Hermann  persisted,  not  in  the  least 
heeding  her  protest,  "my  first  business,  as  her  father,  would 
be  to  interview  the  young  man  and  see  to  it  that  he  is  made 
aware  of  his  immediate  duty  towards  her.  But  that,  of  course, 
does  not  strike  Ferdinand.  He  prefers  to  sit  like  an  old  maid 
at  a  tea-party  and  discuss  the  so  happy  occasion !  " 

Ferdie,  rather  dazed,  passed  a  hand  across  his  forehead,  wet 
with  perspiration.  "  True  —  yes  —  I  must  see  him  at  once," 
he  muttered.  For  a  few  moments  he  had  forgotten  the  inde- 
structible fact  of  Deb's  dishonour. 

"See  —  Cliffe?  Ask  him  to  marry  me?  Dad  —  dad,  you 
can't.  .  .  .  He'd  laugh  .  .  .  they'd  all  laugh.  It  —  it  isn't 
done,  in  our  set.  We  —  I've  told  you  —  I  thought  you  believed 
me  —  no  earthly  possible  reason  why  he  should  marry  me. 
That  night  at  the  cottage  .  .  .  dad,  I've  told  you  —  there  was 
nothing.  You  mustn't  go  to  Clifi"e,"  in  a  sheer  panic  at  the 
ridiculous  situation  thus  threatened,  she  scrambled  up  from 
her  knees,  and  confronted  Ferdinand,  also  on  his  feet  by  now 
— "  You  sha'n't  go  to  Cliffe.  There  was  nothing !  "  she  re- 
peated doggedly.     "  Don't  you  believe  me?  " 

"  You  did  stop  at  his  cottage  that  night  —  alone  with  him?  " 
The  Inquisition  commenced  anew. 

"Yes." 

"  Why  —  what  for  —  if  there  was  nothing?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  No  special  reason.  One  does  —  nowa- 
days." 

" '  Nowadays '  has  as  broad  a  back  as  the  parent,  it  seems," 
wearily.  "  '  Nowadays  '  must  shoulder  everything.  But  only 
not  human  nature.  Deb.  I  have  had  experience  of  human  na- 
ture, that  even  '  nowadays '  cannot  alter." 

Thoroughly  exasperated.  Deb  wrenched  herself  away  from 
all  hope  of  convincing  them.  ..."  I  haven't  —  I  didn't  — 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  215 

but  I  might  as  well  have,  and  I  wish  I  had!  "  was  her  sobbed- 
out  threshold  defiance. 

...  "My  tea,"  grandfather  reminded  Stella,  after  a  long 
silence. 


I 


CHAPTER   VIII 


""I"  AM  writing  to  you,  my  dear  Zoe,  from  the  Cafe  Roman- 
ico.  But  indeed  the  talk  all  round  me  is  so  loud,  I  can 
hardly  collect  my  thoughts.  My  finger  is  better,  but 
I  have  a  pain  in  my  neck.  I  do  not  know  what  it  can  be,  for 
as  you  know  I  do  not  squander  money  on  doctor's  bills,  which 
reminds  me,  my  dear  Zoe,  that  it  is  quite  impossible  that  you 
can  already  have  spent  the  ten  pounds  I  gave  you  on  leav- 
mg.  .  . 

Suddenly  Pinto  looked  up.  Across  the  babel  of  sound,  a 
familiar  name  struck  his  ear.  ..."  Little  Zoe  Dene-Cresswell 
—  si,  si,  I  know  her  —  I  should  have  known  her  better  but  she 
was  occupied  —  Oh,  very  occupied  ...  all  the  day  and  most 
of  the " 

"  For  shame,  Gian.  ..." 

Here  the  laughing  voices  became  for  the  moment  inaudible. 
Pinto  knew  the  first  speaker  by  sight.  It  was  a  friend  of  his 
friend  Marchetti,  who  had  arrived  the  day  before  from  England 
to  perform  his  military  service.  The  other  man,  a  stranger, 
wore  the  R.F.C.  badge.  They  were  at  a  table  behind  him,  and 
doubtless  had  not  recognized  him.  Without  turning  his  head 
he  strained  his  ears  to  hear  more.  The  English  boy  was  read- 
ing aloud  from  a  letter. 

".  .  .  '  With  the  face  of  an  orang-outang  and  the  temper  of 
a  Patagonian  savage!  '  .  .  .  How  she  can  put  up  with  him,  I 
don't  know  —  and  Cliffe  says  she  actually  seems  fond  of  the 
horrid  coarse  brute.  .  .  ." 

Pinto  had  heard  enough.  He  rose  and  stalked  out  of  the 
cafe.  He  was  amazed,  staggered  by  this  proof  of  Zoe's  hypoc- 
risy and  infidelity.  The  world  swam  in  yellow  and  green  be- 
fore his  bilious  gaze.     So  Zoe  could  write  him  every  day  those 

216 


DEBATABLE  GROUND  217 

pretty  little  letters,  sympathizing,  yes,  daring  to  sympathize 
with  the  many  discomforts  of  his  enforced  trip,  and  all  the 
while  she  was  in  the  arms  of  another  lover  —  a  horrid  coarse 
brute  with  a  face  like  an  orang-outang  and  the  temper  of  a 
Patagonian  savage.  .  .  .  Pinto  thought  he  could  have  borne  it 
better,  had  his  rival  been  a  worthier  man  —  in  which  supposi- 
tion Pinto  was  entirely  wrong. 

In  the  first  throes  of  his  jealousy  he  decided  never  to  see 
Zoe  again,  never  to  write  to  her  explaining  his  desertion.  Let 
her  wonder  at  it  as  much  as  she  pleased!  He  had  been  be- 
trayed, he  had  been  fooled,  he  who  had  always  been  so  good  to 
her!  Even  now  the  thought  of  the  ten  pounds  rankled.  How 
she  must  have  rejoiced  at  the  necessity  for  this  business-trip! 
How  she  must  have  laughed  in  her  sleeve  during  their  fare- 
wells. .  .  .  After  all,  she  was  a  common  little  thing,  this  Zoe! 
He  had  tried  to  educate  her  taste,  but  she  was  evidently  glad  to 
sink  again  to  the  type  of  male  with  whom  she  was  most  at  her 
ease.  In  time  she  would  learn  the  difference.  .  .  .  Pinto 
preened  himself.     He  had  done  with  Zoe. 

But  a  month  later,  when  his  business-affairs  were  concluded, 
and  it  was  time  to  return  to  England,  he  decided  that  it  was 
very  dull,  cutting  people  off  for  ever  without  seeing  the  effect 
upon  them  of  this  treatment;  also  he  wanted  his  big  row  with 
Zoe;  also  he  had  discovered  that  no  French  girls  could  cook 
macaroni  like  a  certain  English  girl.  .  .  .  He  did  not  see  why 
he  should  deprive  himself  of  the  relief  of  telling  Zoe  just  ex- 
actly what  he  thought  of  her.  His  nerves  were  in  a  state  of 
suppressed  irritation  for  lack  of  a  victim.  Yes,  most  decidedly 
he  would  go  to  Zoe  and  have  a  grand  scene  with  her,  and  then 
never  see  her  again.  Perhaps  he  would  throw  something  at 
her;  perhaps  even,  he  would  challenge  his  unknown  rival.  But 
this  he  resolved  not  to  do,  in  case  the  challenge  should  be 
taken  up. 

n 

**Antonia  dear,  Miss  Stella  Marcus  has  just  spoken  to  me 
on  the  telephone.     She  asked  for  you.     Perhaps  I  did  wrong 


218  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

in  not  calling  you,  but  she  was  kind  enough  to  say  that  I  was 
not  to  trouble.  She  seems  to  be  in  deep  distress  of  mind, 
causelessly  I  should  say,  but  of  course  I  am  in  no  position  to 
judge." 

"  Why,  mother?  "  Antonia  and  Cliff e  were  engrossed  over  a 
portfolio  of  Cubist  pictures  by  an  aspirant  for  their  candid 
criticism,  when  Mrs.  Verity  came  to  the  door  of  the  studio. 

"  Deb  has  eloped,  with  very  commendable  independence  of 
spirit,  I  thought,  but  I  did  not  say  so  to  Miss  Marcus,  who 
seemed  in  deep  distress  of  mind.  Forgive  me  if  I  repeat  my- 
self, Antonia  dear.  Cliffe,  do,  I  beg  you,  forgive  me  if  I  re- 
peat myself,  but  it  is  all  so  surprising." 

" Eloped!  Deb!  but  she's  never  said  a  word  to  me!  "  An- 
tonia sprang  to  her  feet,  scattering  the  drawings  over  the  floor. 
"  Whom  has  she  eloped  with?  " 

"  Miss  Marcus  said  .  .  .  but  I  really  and  truly  doubt  if  she 
can  be  accurate,  so  perhaps  I  ought  not  to  report  her  words  — 
it  is  so  very,  very  difficult  to  know  what  is  tactful  and  prudent 
under  such  circumstances  —  but  Miss  Marcus  said  her  niece  had 
unfortunately  eloped  this  afternoon  with  Mr.  Cliffe  Kennedy !  " 

Antonia  raised  quizzical  eyebrows  in  Cliffe's  direction. 
"  Present  appearances  are  in  your  favour,  Cliffe  —  but 
still " 

Kennedy  protested  heatedly:  "I  have  most  emphatically 
not  eloped  with  Deb!  Do  I  look  as  though  I'd  eloped  with 
any  one  this  aftenoon?  What  nasty  people  those  Marcuses  are, 
taking  away  a  fellow's  character !  " 

"Perhaps  they  did  not  mean  it  uncharitably,  Cliffe;  I  trust 
indeed  that  if  you  or  any  one  were  to  elope  with  a  daughter  of 
mine,  that  I  should  approve  heartily  —  though  certainly  elope 
has  an  old-fashioned  sound.  The  Marcuses  are  slightly  old- 
fashioned  people;  charming  —  I  mean  nothing  to  their  detri- 
ment, but  laggards  in  emancipation.  Young  people  do  not 
elope  nowadays  —  they  walk  straight  out  of  the  dusty  temple 
of  convention  on  to  the  open  heath.  But  pray  do  not  allow 
me  to  be  a  bore;  I  merely  wanted  to  assure  you,  Cliffe,  that  in 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  219 

repeating  Miss  Marcus'  comment,  I  in  no  way  attach  any  blame 
to  your  possible  complicity." 

Cliffe  bent  and  kissed  her  hand  in  its  black  silk  mitten. 

"  I  regret  to  state,  dear  lady,  that  I've  frequently  invited  a 
daughter  of  yours  —  I  may  say  the  daughter  of  yours,  to  step 
with  me  on  to  the  open  heath,  but,  deplorably  archaic  in  her 
principles,  she  has  always  rigidly  insisted  on  the  prior  formal- 
ity of  a  registrar's  ofiSce." 

Mrs.  Verity  shuddered  slightly.  It  was  one  of  her  troubles 
that  the  late  Mr.  Verity  had  succeeded  in  imposing  upon  her  the 
legal  right  to  bear  his  name,  before  she  knew  enough  of  life, 
or  the  New  Movement,  to  resent  it. 

"  Mother,  you're  being  selfish.     I  want  to  know  about  Deb?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,"  full  of  contrition.  "  And  you  have  been  so 
patient  with  me.  Now  let  me  try  and  be  accurate:  I  gathered 
from  Miss  Marcus  that  violent  argument  had  taken  place  this 
afternoon  between  little  Deb  and  her  father,  in  which  he  cen- 
sured her,  most  unwisely,  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  say  so,  for 
a  too  passionately  independent  spirit,  and  threatened  her  with 
closer  guardianship  for  the  future.  The  brave  child,  refusing 
to  submit,  has  been  seen  leaving  Montagu  Hall  at  teatime  — 
no,  a  little  after,  with  a  suit-case,  but  without  a  word  of  explan- 
ation. They  are  anxious  to  discover  her  whereabouts.  The 
object  of  the  telephone  call  was  to  enquire  if  Antonia  knew 
anything." 

"But  where  do  I  come  in?"  demanded  Kennedy  in  ag- 
grieved innocence. 

"  Miss  Marcus  seemed  to  think  it  possible  that  you  were 
involved  in  the  flight,  but  she  did  not  give  me  her  reasons  for 
supposing  so.  I  mentioned  indeed  that  you  were  here,  but  .  .  . 
Cliffe,  if  you  have  an  appointment  with  Deb  tonight,"  Mrs. 
Verity  glanced  at  her  neat  wrist-watch  — "  it  is  precisely  a  quar- 
ter to  nine,"  she  said  anxiously.  "  You  ought  not  to  be  late  — 
if  she  has  taken  this  step  for  your  sake  —  I  truly  have  no  desire 
to  be  meddlesome,  but " 

Clifife  turned  sulky,  asserted  that  he  knew  nothing  about  Deb, 


220  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

that  she  had  probably  gone  for  a  walk,  and  that  he  and  Antonia 
were  due  at  Gillian  Sherwood's  at  nine  o'clock. 

"  People  don't  go  out  for  walks  lugging  a  suit-case.  Don't 
be  inhuman,  Cliffe.  Deb's  such  an  impetuous  little  goose.  .  .  . 
Oh,  probably  she  has  gone  to  La  llorraine  —  or  to  Zoe.  .  .  . 
Yes,  I  remember  Zoe  offered  her  a  spare  bed  whenever  she  liked 
to  drop  in.  I  wish  she  had  a  'phone."  Antonia  fidgetted 
irresolutely  with  an  easel-peg,  popping  it  in  and  out  of  its  hole. 

"  I'll  run  round  to  Zoe,"  she  exclaimed  suddenly.  "  Explain 
to  Gillian  for  me,  will  you,  Cliffe?  I  shan't  rest  till  I  find  out 
—  it  puzzles  me  why  Deb  doesn't  come  here.  .  .  ." 

After  Antonia  had  quitted  the  studio,  and  Cliffe  and  Mrs. 
Verity  had  enjoyed  a  little  desultory  chatter  on  Reconstruction 
of  Sexual  Morality  in  Conformity  with  the  New  Era  of  Woman- 
hood, and  what  a  pity  it  was  that  darling  Antonia  was  so  in- 
tolerant, he  departed  for  Bayswater,  where  he  found  Winifred 
Potter  lolloping  in  plump  content  on  the  horse-hair  sofa,  with  a 
penny  novelette. 

"Hullo,  Winnie,  where's  Gillian?  " 

"  Hullo,  Cliffe.  I  believe  she's  out.  Or  she  may  be  in  her 
room.  Just  look.  .  .  ."  She  was  of  the  pretty  unremarkable 
type  of  suburban  girl,  who  wears  beads  round  a  podgy  white 
neck,  and  never  moves  save  under  compulsion. 

"  Not  in  there,  Cliffe,"  as  he  opened  the  door  of  the  bedroom 
adjoining;  "We've  changed  over,  so  tliat  I  needn't  do  the 
stairs  so  much.  Jill  sleeps  on  the  third  floor  now.  Wasn't  it 
sweet  of  her  to  change?  " 

Cliffe  grunted  and  ran  up  to  the  third  floor,  then  down 
again. 

"  Not  a  sign  of  her.  At  least  —  no  —  the  whole  bally  floor 
is  littered  with  signs  of  her,  but  that's  all.  Is  she  out?  She 
expected  me  and  Antonia  tonight  to  go  to  the  Vermillion  Club, 
but  that's  nothing;  no  inconvenience.  Winnie,  do  wake  up  — 
you've  grown  fatter." 

"  Theo  says  I've  grown  thinner,"  said  Winnie  unperturbed. 

"  Theo  was  pulling  your  leg,  my  dear." 

"Was  he?     Yes,  he  often  does.     He  w  a  caution.  .  .  ." 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  221 

"Where's  Gillian?"  shouted  Cliffe,  whom,  strangely,  this 
placid  young  woman  could  always  irritate  to  a  frenzy — ("If 
you  poke  her  mind  you  only  dimple  the  suet  " —  he  complained 
to  Antonia) .  "  Where's  Gillian?  She  invited  Antonia  and  me 
to  supper." 

"  I  expect  she  forgot,"  lazily,  "  anyway,  Antonia  hasn't  come, 
so  it  doesn't  matter." 

"I've  come,  haven't  I?" 

"  Yes,"  Winnie  sighed,  and  fingered  her  novelette. 

"  Well  —  I'm  off  again.  Can't  waste  a  moment.  Tell  Gil- 
lian that  we're  in  a  terrible  state;  Antonia  has  had  to  run  round 
to  Zoe  —  Deb  Marcus  is  missing  from  home  since  yesterday  — 
no ;  the  day  before  —  since  days "  he  paused,  for  sensa- 
tion. 

"  How  perfectly  awful.  But  I  expect  she'll  come  back," 
yawned  Winnie. 

It  had  become  more  essential  to  Cliffe  than  anything  else 
in  the  whole  world,  that  Winifred  Potter  should  be  made  to 
display  some  rending  emotion. 

"  No.  She  won't  come  back.  I  .  .  .  happen  to  know  she 
won't  come  back,  you  see." 

Winnie  dangled  her  bare  braceletted  arm  over  the  side  of 
the  sofa  and  picked  up  a  cushion  which  had  slid  to  the  ground. 

"  Why?     Do  you  know  where  she  is?  " 

"  No.  Only  where  she  isn't.  Only  where  she  isn't,  Winnie. 
And  that's  on  earth." 

.  .  .  After  all,  it  was  merely  the  question  of  the  novelette. 
Now  that  Cliffe  had  really  produced  a  thrill  which  out-rivalled 
even  "  The  Sin  of  Lady  Jacynth  "  by  Coronal,  Winnie  immedi- 
ately yielded  him  what  he  coveted  in  the  way  of  attention  all 
agape.  She  was  personally  acquainted  with  neither  Deb  nor 
Lady  Jacynth,  but  Cliffe  had  proved  himself  a  better  author 
than  Coronal. 

"  —  Dead?'' 

He  nodded  curtly,  and  stood  for  a  moment  with  eyes  fixed 
on  the  carpet  .  .  .  then  bent  and  cut  off  a  loose  strand  absently 
with  his  penknife  .  .  .  seemed  on  the  verge  of  speaking  .  .  , 


222  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

thought  better  of  it.  Winifred  watched  him;  her  light  blue 
eyes  were  circles  of  horror  and  fascination. 

"  She's  not  dead,"  abruptly ;  "  forget  that  I  said  it.  I  ought 
not  —  Ought  I  ?  —  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Upon  my  soul,  I  don't 
know  .  .  ."  he  began  to  stalk  the  room,  hair  falling  shaggily 
over  his  frowning  forehead,  as  he  jerked  his  head  in  acute 
mental  conflict. 

Winifred  was  rapacious  for  detail :  "  Did  any  one  treat  her 
badly?  "  she  whispered,  with  healthy  gloating.  "Any  man, 
I  mean?  " 

And  one  man  stood  stock-still  as  though  he  had  been  shot. 

"  What  makes  you  ask  me  that?  " 

"  Was  it  you?  "  queried  Winifred,  very  naturally. 

And  then  he  unburdened  himself.  He  had  by  this  time  safely 
crossed  that  precarious  borderland  stage  in  the  Life  of  a  Lie, 
by  Cliffe  Kennedy,  when  that  lie,  from  being  artistically  per- 
ceived, created  and  approved  by  his  own  consciousness,  is 
slowly  and  mysteriously  merged,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned, 
into  genuine  and  independent  existence,  the  self-supplied 
ground- work  entirely  obliterated  from  his  memory. 

He  was  mostly  worried,  it  seemed,  as  to  whether  he  ought  to 
tell  Deb's  people  .  .  .  what  he  knew.  Directly  he  heard  that 
she  was  missing,  her  threat  of  suicide  had  scorched  like  fire 
into  his  mind.  .  .  .  Why,  that  night  on  the  open  common  .  .  . 
black  blown  space,  and  Deb's  wild  hair  swept  straight  out  like 
a  drenched  black  banner  by  the  wind;  and  Deb's  mood  black 
as  night  itself,  and  as  passionate,  declaring  that  she  meant 
to  die  —  that  she  was  tired  of  fighting  God  — "  tired  of  fight- 
ing Him  for  you,  Cliffe.  .  .  .  And  sometimes  it's  easier  to  die 

than  to  live "     He  had  no  very  clear  notion  of  what  the 

fuss  was  about,  but  he  saw  her  face,  a  grey  blur,  save  where  her 
eyes  and  mouth  were  wet  and  black  .  .  .  and  knew  it  was 
best  for  him  to  turn  and  go;  her  ragged  sobbing  followed  him 
through  the  swish  of  the  rain,  black  slanting  stripes  of 
rain.  ... 

So  the  man's  racing  sense  of  what  was  fitly  beautiful  and 
tragic  caught  the  scene  and  flashed  it  into  being;  so  his  infall- 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  223 

ible  ear  caught  the  sounds,  .  .  .  and  so  he  described  it  to  Win- 
nie Potter  —  till  the  complete  vision  was  broken  all  into  bits 
—  like  the  Cubist  pictures  which  he  had  last  seen  strewing  the 
floor  of  Antonia's  studio. 

.  .  .  Mrs.  Verity's  recent  remarks,  a  certain  conversation 
with  Otto  Redbury  in  the  Tube,  the  actual  Saturday  to  Sunday 
spent  at  Seaview,  telepathic  oddments  from  Winifred's  con- 
ventional expectation,  suggestion  from  the  cover -picture  illus- 
trating "  The  Sin  of  Lady  Jacynth,"  were  all  stirred  and  flung 
pell-mell  into  the  descending  spiral  vortex  of  Cliffe's  pris- 
matic imagination. 

"  Oh !  "  gasped  Winifred  at  the  end  of  the  recital,  "  but  I  do 
think  you  ought  to  tell  them,  Cliff"e,  even  if  you're  not  sure  — 
they  might  want  to  drag  the  river,  or  something.  .  .  .  Any- 
way, they've  got  a  right  to  know." 

"Granted  that  —  have  I  the  right  to  tell  them?  The  Aunt 
mentioned  me  as  being  mixed  up  in  the  whole  horrible  busi- 
ness, when  she  'phoned  Mrs.  Verity.  Am  I  the  person  to  tell 
them?  .  .  .  when  it  may  not  even  be  true  .  .  .  when  I  may  be 
only  the  victim  of  my  cursedly  morbid  imagination  —  And 
yet  —  I  wish  to  Heaven,  Winnie,  that  some  one  would  take  the 
decision  out  of  my  hands.  I  can't  stand  it  much  longer  — 
holding  the  secret  alone  —  it  gnaws  .  .  .  like  the  fox  —  Spar- 
tan boy  —  you  know !  .  .  .  I  hold  it  tight,  and  it  gnaws.  What 
do  you  suppose  my  nights  are  like?  "  turning  with  ferocity 
on  to  his  hearer,  who  replied  simply :  "  What  things  you  do 
say,  Cliff"e!" 

"  Ought  I "  he  hacked  anew  at  indecision.     The  puzzle 

existed  for  him  as  surely  as  though  it  were  wrought  in  bits  of 
metal,  and  sold  in  a  box  for  fourpence-halfpenny.  Deb  was 
missing;  his  name  was  mixed  up  in  it;  ought  the  Marcuses  to 
be  told  what  he  knew  about  that  night —  (hiatus)  — at  Sea- 
view?  Was  he  the  right  person  to  tell  them?  These  were  all 
facts.  The  hiatus  was  slurred  over  unperceived.  ...  it  was 
such  a  tiny  hiatus.  Winifred  Potter  was  responsible  for  it,  by 
being  fat,  and  yawning,  and  talking  in  that  slow  flaccid  way 
of  hers.  .  .  .  But  it  was  an  absorbing  problem!     And  under- 


224  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

neath  a  top  layer  of  recently-manufactured  tragedy,  Cliffe's 
genuine  nature  was  genuinely  concerned  about  Deb,  and  the 
circumstances  which  attended  her  flight  from  home,  and  his  own 
possible  share  in  the  matter.  Was  any  course  of  action  ex- 
pected of  him  —  not  officially  by  her  family,  but  in  the  way  of 
ordinary  decency?  An  offer  of  marriage?  Surely  not!  but 
he  ought  to  go  and  look  for  her 

In  the  river? 

Who  said  she  was  in  the  river?  truculently.  Winifred  Potter. 
She  had  talked  about  dragging  it  .  .  .  nasty  idea!  Anyway, 
how  did  she  know?  She  was  too  fat  to  know  anything  —  just 
a  mischief-maker  —  And  then  again  —  ought  the  Redburys  to 
be  told?  .  .  .  Would  it  be  worse  for  them  to  wait  from  hour 
to  hour  and  from  week  to  week,  hope  slowly  drained  away 
—  or  be  dealt  the  sudden  blow? 

Not  by  him  in  any  case.  Not  by  the  man  who  ought  to  have 
married  Deb. 

His  entranced  mind,  pacing  the  hiatus  like  a  bridge  between 
fact  and  fancy,  took  him  out  of  the  house  and  half-way  down 
the  street  before  he  even  realized  that  he  had  left  the  room. 
And  he  had  completely  forgotten  to  say  good-bye  to  Winifred. 

.  .  .  Presently  she  picked  irresolutely  at  the  edges  of  "  The 
Sin  of  Lady  Jacynth."  She  wondered  if  it  would  be  wrong  to 
finish  it;  like  —  like  raising  the  blinds  too  soon  after  a  funeral. 
But  —  it  was  not  as  if  she  had  known  Deb  any  better  than 
Jacynth.  And  the  solution  to  that  lady's  sin  was  so  handy  .  .  . 
one  did  not  have  to  go  out  and  drag  for  it,  or  even  move  from 
the  sofa.  .  .  . 

Winifred  did  not  move  from  the  sofa,  not  when  the  front- 
door bell  was  violently  pealed  —  again  —  and  several  times 
again.  She  went  on  reading.  After  about  six  minutes,  the 
lodger  on  the  third  floor,  who  had  previously  admitted  Cliffe, 
came  tramping  wearily  down  the  stairs  again  to  let  in  Gillian 
Sherwood. 

"So  you  are  at  home,  you  lazy  young  pug.     And  awake?  " 

"  Have  you  lost  your  key  again  ?  "  Winnie  reprimanded  her. 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  225 

"  Yes  —  no  —  here  it  is,  in  the  ash-tray.  I  remembered  sud- 
denly that  Cliffe  and  Antonia  were  supposed  to  turn  up  tonight, 
and  flew  home."  Gillian,  yielding  to  natural  tendencies,  scat- 
tered widely  her  hat  and  gloves  and  coat  in  various  portions 
of  the  room.  Then  chased  them  and  retrieved  them  and  draped 
them  tidily  on  one  chair,  remembering  that  if  she  did  not  do  so, 
nobody  would.  It  was  on  understanding  of  the  performance  of 
this  and  like  jobs  that  Winifred  had  been  enlisted  as  her  room- 
mate. Thus  Gillian  would  be  left  free  to  be  a  genius.  Winnie 
was  glad  to  leave  her  own  chaotic  home  of  exacting  parents 
and  brothers.  She  ensconced  herself  tranquilly  and  for  good 
on  the  sofa  of  Gillian's  furnished  apartments.  Having  natur- 
ally a  sweet  disposition,  she  did  not  complain  because  it  was 
a  horsehair  sofa  and  very  slippery.  And  Gillian,  having  nat- 
urally a  sweet  disposition,  enlivened  by  humour,  continued  to 
make  brilliant  effective  dashes  at  domesticity,  in  the  between- 
while  of  her  other  work;  with  the  sole  difference  that  now  she 
cleared  up  for  Winifred  as  well  as  for  herself.  She  had  grown 
fond  of  the  plump  little  parasite;  and  took  the  same  sort  of 
freakish  delight  in  her  as  Cliffe  in  Otto  Redbury.  And  Wini- 
fred was  mulishly  averse  from  returning  home;  she  was  hap- 
pier with  Gillian;  Gillian  gave  her  more  pocket-money  than 
ever  father  did.  And  Gillian  was  famous  —  a  personage.  .  .  . 
It  was  all  very  nice.     She  was  never  going  to  leave  Gillian. 

Gillian  began  to  hurl  supper  on  to  the  table,  smashing  three 
plates  and  a  jam-jar,  confidently  indifferent  as  a  conjuror  who 
smashes  a  watch  in  the  knowledge  that  he  can  produce  it  whole 
again  out  of  the  top-hat  of  the  Gentleman  in  the  Back  Row. 
Winifred  watched  her  listlessly  for  a  few  moments,  till  it 
dawned  upon  her  that  knives  and  forks  were  being  laid  for  four. 

"Cliffe  and  Antonia  aren't  coming.  Didn't  I  tell  you? 
Cliffe  has  been  here  already,  and  he  says  that  Deb  Marcus  has 
killed  herself!  " 

"  Then  she  probably  has  a  cold  in  the  head,"  Gillian  com- 
mented, with  the  perfect  serenity  of  one  who  has  often  sampled 
the  output  from  the  Kennedy  factory. 

Winifred  was  indignant;  and  even  roused  herself  to  convince 


226  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

Gillian ;  who  presently  admitted  that  there  "  might  be  some- 
thing in  the  story!  " 

"  —  Anyhow,  Cliffe  oughtn't  to  be  allowed  to  walk  about 
with  such  a  dynamo  joggling  loose  in  his  pocket.  Did  you  say 
he  did  or  did  not  intend  to  explode  it  on  the  Marcus  family? 
Because  if  the  girl  is  really  missing,  it  may  frighten  them." 

"  He  wasn't  sure.  Never  mind.  We  don't  know  any  of 
them."  And  Winifred  rolled  off  the  sofa  and  established  her- 
self comfortably  at  the  table. 

Gillian's  eyes  twinkled  at  her  —  narrow  green-grey  eyes  set 
askew  in  an  odd,  thin,  freckled  face.  Gillian's  body  was  also 
thin  and  small-boned  to  a  degree.  And  her  hair,  which,  by 
all  the  rights  of  compensation  should  have  been  a  gloriously 
redeeming  feature,  was  short  and  mouse-coloured  and  ragged 

—  short  with  the  round  pudding-basin  effect.  The  man  who 
loved  her  could  say  that  she  had  pretty  wrists  and  ankles,  and 
enormous  fascination.  Then,  lacking  material,  he  must  per- 
force cease  from  hyperbole. 

("  Go  on,  Theo  —  what  next?  "  and  he  could  never  be  quite 
sure  if  she  were  wilfully  plaguing  him,  or  else  blind  to  her  own 
shortcomings.  "  Theo,  do  you  know  a  bit  in  Browning  about 
*  Mistresses  with  great  smooth  marbly  limbs '  ?  .  .  .  Jolly  line, 
isn't  it?  ...  Or  d'you  admire  the  slender  type  more?  I  —  I 
suppose  you  would  call  me  slender,  wouldn't  you?  .  .  .  Not 
exactly  the  right  word?  — Well,  svelte  then?  .  .  .  like  ladies 
in  the  corset  advertisements.     No?     Theo,  not  —  not  scraggy 

—  Oh,  you  wouldn't  call  me  scraggy,  would  you?  .  .  ." 
Then,  after  a  pause,  still  persistent:     "Theo  —  would  you 

call  me  scraggy?     Do  tell!  " 

"  You're  just  the  squeak  of  a  mouse  made  concrete,  Gillian." 

"  That's  not  such  a  good  line  as  Browning's,"  she  sighed. 
And  he,  being  a  sensual  epicure,  sighed  also,  thinking  of  the 
great  smooth  marbly  limbs  —  and  for  the  thousandth  time 
racked  his  brains  for  what  attracted  him  so  mightily  and  des- 
perately in  this  exasperating  bit  of  a  creature  with  —  with 

"  Well,  Theo?  "  expectantly. 

"  With  remarkably  pretty  wrists  and  ankles.'* 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  227 

And :  "  Go  on,  Theo,"  in  complacent  appreciation  of  these. 
"What  next?") 

"  Where's  the  blanc-mange?  "  enquired  Winnie,  whose  fa- 
vourite pudding  it  was. 

Gillian  pushed  her  hands  backwards  through  her  hair,  in 
an  effort  of  memory;  "I  believe  I  turned  it  out  on  the  wash- 
stand  in  your  room.     You'll  find  it  there  when  you  want  it." 

"  Why,  are  you  going  out  again?  "  as  the  other  rose  im- 
petuously from  supper. 

"  I'm  not  happy  about  that  Deb  Marcus  kid.  .  .  .  Not  my 
business,  but  Cliffe  is  such  an  irresponsible  lunatic  —  and  if 
even  Antonia  doesn't  know  what  he's  saying  about  it  all " 

"  Nobody  knows  but  me  and  him,"  said  Winifred  impor- 
tantly.    "  It's  a  secret." 

Gillian  bestowed  on  her  a  quick  mobile  grin.  "  Mind  you 
keep  it,  then.  Did  you  say  Antonia  had  gone  round  to 
Zoe?  " 

Winnie  nodded,  her  mouth  full,  of  salad. 

"Right.  'Night,  Winnie. —  Lord,  I'd  nearly  forgotten  that 
key  again.  Why  didn't  you  remind  me?  Think  of  the  na- 
tional calamity  if  I'd  called  you  up  out  of  bed." 

Winifred  assented,  but  reflected  no  doubt  that  there  was 
always  the  lodger  on  the  third  floor.  .  .  .  "You  might  give 
me  the  blanc-mange,  Jill,  as  you're  up." 

Ill 

"  I  say,  is  my  sister  here?  " 

Zoe  opened  her  eyes  very  wide:  "  Are  you  Seul  au  Monde?  " 
she  whispered  cautiously,  bending  from  the  threshold  towards 
Richard  till  her  rumple  of  primrose  curls  fell  forward  over  the 
shoulders  of  her  frilly  white  dressing- jacket. 

He  stepped  back  a  pace. 

"  Because  if  you  are  " —  with  a  gurgle  of  laughter  — "  then 
I'm  Petite  Sceur  —  but  you're  not  half  as  French  as  I  thought 
you,  and  why  aren't  you  in  your  nice  uniform?  Never  mind 
— are  you  hungry?  Did  you  cross  today?  Do  you  think 
you're  going  to  like  me  as  much  as  you  supposed?  ' 


228  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  Well,  honestly,  you're  awfully  jolly  and  all  that  —  but  you 
see  we're  a  bit  bothered  about  Deb  just  at  present.  Is  she 
here?  " 

"  Deb  —  oh,  then  you're  her  brother.  Mr,  Richard  Marcus, 
isn't  it?  "  Zoe  immediately  adapted  herself  to  the  change  of 
notion,  and  all  the  possibilities  it  in  its  turn  entailed.  "  D'you 
know  who  I  thought  you  were?  My  unknown  correspondent 
at  the  Front  —  I  answered  his  Ad.  in  the  Vie  Parisienne;  there 
was  no  harm  in  it,  was  there?  He  wrote  back  such  a  darling 
letter  —  and  promised  to  come  here  on  his  next  leave.  So  of 
course  I  thought.  .  .  .  But  it  doesn't  matter  one  bit,  so  do 
come  in.  I'm  really  rather  glad  you've  come,  between  our- 
selves, because  my  landlord's  called  on  me  and  he's  perfectly 
awful  when  he  starts." 

"  What  a  beast !  "  rather  hazy,  nevertheless,  as  to  what  it 
was  the  landlord  started.  Possibly  the  poor  kid  was  behind- 
hand with  the  rent,  and  he  was  trying  to  cart  away  her  furni- 
ture.    "  I  say,  is  Deb  here?  " 

"  No,  but  I  daresay  if  she  told  you  to  meet  her  here,  she'll 
turn  up  presently,  so  you  might  as  well  wait.  I've  often  won- 
dered what  you  were  like  .  .  ."  with  a  serious  intimate  scrutiny 
from  under  drawn  brows,  which  she  always  found  "  went " 
well  with  under  seventeen  and  over  sixty.  "  Come  into  the 
sitting-room.  You'll  excuse  these  clothes,  but  I  was  just  dress- 
ing for  tonight  when  he  came  " —  with  a  nod  towards  the  room 
— "  and  you  won't  believe  me,  but  I've  had  to  be  perfectly  hor- 
rid to  him  ...  to  counteract  the  effort  of  my  hair  down, 
you  know.  I  suppose  he  has  the  kind  of  wife  who  keeps  hers 
always  in  iron  curlers  —  shouldn't  you  think  he  has?  So,  poor 
man,  one  would  expect  a  little  agitation.  But  there  are  limits, 
aren't  there?  I  mean  from  one's  landlord.  So  you  really  are 
a  godsend  ...  a  sort  of  guardian  angel.  Isn't  it  curious,  but 
I've  always,  even  when  I  was  a  kiddie,  wanted  to  see  my  Guar- 
dian Angel  in  the  flesh  —  at  least  in  his  clothes  —  you  know 
what  I  mean?  Because  I  was  always  quite  sure  he  was  a  man 
—  it  didn't  seem  right  that  he  shouldn't  be,  somehow." 

"  Bet  you  could  have  made  a  man  of  him,  anyway,"  said 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  229 

Richard  in  blind  admiration.  And  he  was  right;  Zoe  could  be 
relied  on  to  rouse  the  sex  element  from  any  substance  in  her 
vicinity,  even  a  guardian  angel. 

Delighted  with  his  tribute,  and  still  gabbling,  she  preceded 
him  into  the  sitting-room,  and  prettily  introduced  him  to  the 
landlord,  a  very  low  man,  but  genial,  and  obviously  with  no 
evil  intentions  on  the  furniture.  The  difficult  point  at  issue 
seemed  to  be  that  he  desired  to  pay  for  the  new  carpet;  and 
Zoe,  wriggling  coyly  on  the  edge  of  temptation,  would  yet  not 
quite  yield  to  it.  "Though  if  spitting  on  a  carpet  makes  it 
yours,  I'm  sure  I've  no  more  claims  at  all,  Mr.  Wright!  "  with 
a  look  of  coquetry  that  mellowed  her  unexpectedly  frank  re- 
buke. 

Richard  was  enjoying  it  —  enjoying  her  immensely.  There 
was  no  real  cause  for  alarm  about  Deb;  only  the  family  were 
fussing.  And  he  was  flattered  by  Zoe's  skill  in  making  him 
feel  essential  to  her  being,  while  dimly  recognizing  that  the 
flattery  was  somewhat  impaired  by  its  too  even  distribution 
between  himself  and  the  landlord.  Zoe  was  not  in  the  least 
Richard's  ideal.  But  Zoe  was  —  well,  rather  a  rag!  And  she 
bespoke  applause  by  the  zest  and  candour  with  which  she  de- 
manded it,  retailed  it,  invented  it  .  .  .  her  existence  might 
present  a  surface  appearance  of  muddle,  but  perhaps  more  than 
other  girls  she  could  hail  herself  as  a  success.  Zoe  knew  how 
to  unwind  unlimited  quantities  of  what  makes  you  happy,  and 
how  to  be  made  happy  by  a  material  of  which  unlimited  quan- 
tities exist  for  the  unwinding. 

"  I'm  going  to  be  taken  out  this  evening  by  a  Cavalry  giant 
who  clanks  and  jangles  the  whole  way  up  the  stairs,  and  calls 
me  'You  dear  little  thing!  fancy  livin'  all  alone  with  no  one 
to  look  after  you  —  it's  a  shame!  ' — and  brings  me  presents. 
He's  about  forty  and  thinks  I'm  not  quite  seventeen;  and 
when  I  perch  winsomely  on  his  knee  and  turn  his  pockets  inside- 
out  to  find  what  he's  got  for  me,  he's  just  as  pleased  as  a  little 
child.  Really  he  is!  And  then  I  spread  out  all  my  presents 
on  the  table  to  make  them  look  more,  and  dance  roimd  them 
and  skip  and  clap  my  hands  with  glee.     Oh,  he  loves  it  when 


230  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

I  clap  my  hands  with  glee.  You  shall  both  see  me  do  it  if 
you  wait  long  enough.  Isn't  it  funny  what  things  please  some 
men?  Sometimes  I  say  'What  have  you  brought  me?  '  and 
he  says  '  nothing  at  all '  to  tease  me,  and  I  pout  —  like  this  — 
look  —  look,  Mr.  Marcus!  —  and  he  can't  bear  to  see  me  so  dis- 
appointed and  pulls  an  enormous  painted  chocolate-box  from 
behind  his  back!  That  sort  of  treatment  is  wonderfully  re- 
juvenating, you  wouldn't  believe  it;  tons  better  than  massage. 
There  he  is,  and  I'm  not  dressed  yet!  "  She  scuttled  into  her 
room  as  a  door  banged  down  on  the  street  level;  then  popped 
her  head  in  again  to  say :  "  You'll  keep  him  entertained,  won't 
you,  till  I'm  ready?     He's  quite  easy!  " 

"  Would  he  rather  have  me  or  Mr.  Wright  to  perch  on  his 
knee?  "  laughed  Richard. 

"Ef  it's  fur  turnin'  aht  'is  pawkits,  it'ull  be  me!"  the 
landlord  remarked  with  a  facetious  wink. 

As  the  footsteps  were  heard,  though  without  any  of  the  per- 
ceptible clank  and  jangle  foretold,  Zoe  again  appeared,  with 
comb  tugging  at  her  curls. 

"  I  wonder  if  the  sight  of  you  two  would  upset  him.  .  .  . 
I've  told  him  that  I  had  no  friends  in  the  world  except  him 
and  one  old  lady  who's  kind  to  the  lonely  little  girl  " —  she 
eyed  the  landlord  dubiously  — "  Oh,  you  could  pretend  to  be 
the  broker,"  with  a  quick  spurt  of  inspiration.  "  Will  you,  Mr. 
Wright?  It  might  make  him  feel  generous,  mightn't  it?  And 
you  " —  even  in  the  extremity  of  haste  and  peril  she  checked 
herself  from  a  tactless  decision  that  maybe  Richard  was  too 
young  to  matter  much  — "  You  —  behind  the  curtain.  No  — 
your  boots  will  show.  Get  into  the  cupboard  —  Quick!  "  She 
banged  the  door  on  him,  and  banged  her  bedroom  door,  just  as 
the  front-door  of  the  flat,  left  open  at  Richard's  entrance, 
banged  shakily  behind  the  entering  newcomer. 

"  Like  a  bally  old  farce,"  Richard  reflected ;  he  did  not  know 
that  people  ever  really  hid  in  cupboards.  Though  in  Zoe's 
flat  such  behaviour  seemed  not  only  free  from  eccentricity,  but 
rhythmically  correct. 

He  knew  the  flat  quite  well.  .  .  .  Richard's  imagination  was 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  231 

not  the  choked-up  affair  of  a  year  ago.  This  was  the  flat  where 
comic  misunderstandings  took  place,  and  false  identities,  where 
an  incriminating  glove  was  left  in  the  corner,  and  where  screens 
fell  down  at  the  wrong  moment;  it  was  the  flat  for  runaway 
wives;  the  flat  where  the  husband  is  made  to  look  a  fool.  It 
was  jolly,  now,  actually  to  be  in  such  a  flat,  actually  to  be  the 
Man  in  the  Cupboard;  Richard  chuckled  silently  .  .  .  then 
grew  impatient,  till,  after  seemingly  endless  waiting  in  muffled 
darkness  the  fourth  wall  against  which  he  pressed  his  weight 
gave  way,  and  he  stumbled  forward  into  a  room  full  of  people. 
..."  Fancy,  I  forgot  you  for  the  moment,"  laughed  Zoe,  who 
had  released  him.  "  Why  didn't  you  bang  or  shout?  Here's 
Antonia  come  to  find  Deb.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  all  Lon- 
don is  running  here  this  evening  to  enquire  after  that  sister  of 
yours.  Isn't  it  funny  —  she  and  Monsieur  le  Caporal  met  on 
the  stairs,  and  he  thought  she  was  Petite  Soeur,  didn't  you?  — 
just  like  I  took  Mr.  Marcus  for  Seul  au  Monde!  " 

A  young  man  in  uniform,  with  round  red  cheeks  and  a  tassel 
dangling  from  his  cap,  stood  adoring  Zoe  with  an  embarrassed 
smile,  obviously  not  understanding  a  word  of  her  harangue. 
There  are  two  types  of  Belgian  soldier  —  the  stolid  peasant  who 
is  shy,  and  the  dapper  townsman  who  is  bold.  Zoe  unfortu- 
nately had  hooked  one  of  the  former  species.  Undaunted,  she 
turned  her  welcome  into  French  with  morsels  of  pidgin  English 
inserted  for  the  benefit  of  Mr.  Sam  Wright,  that  he  might  not 
feel  left  out  of  the  conversation;  Richard  over  by  the  window, 
was  explaining  to  Antonia  about  Deb. 

It  was  Mr.  Wright  who  discovered  that  the  Belgian  had  had 
nothing  to  eat  for  fourteen  hours.  "  'Old  on.  Missy  —  the 
young  chap's  guts  is  fair  yawning  for  a  bit  o'  something  solid. 
This  is  my  treat  —  see  —  and  you  go  an'  cook  a  steak  for  'im. 
Veev  la  Belgium!  "  and  the  Corporal,  understanding,  stood 
at  attention  —  and  then  bowed  gratefully  to  Mr.  Wright,  to 
Antonia,  and  Richard,  and  Zoe,  in  turn,  while  the  tassel  from 
his  cap  bobbed  absurdly.  .  .  . 

Zoe,  interrupted  in  a  rapid  resume  of  her  own  intimate  his- 
tory, calculated  to  set  the  intruder  at  his  ease,  took  up  the 


232  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

threads  again  while  she  ran  in  and  out  of  the  kitchen,  laying 
the  table  and  grilling  the  steak. 

"  Isn't  it  a  good  thing  I've  still  got  some  wine  in  the  house  — 
this  is  the  last  bottle,  but  I  expect  more  tomorrow  —  it's  a 
present.  Oh,  not  from  Captain  Braithwaite  —  I  wonder  why 
he's  so  late,  by  the  way? — but  there's  an  Italian  wine-and- 
macaroni  shop  just  around  the  corner,  and  the  owner  is  simply 
crazy  about  me  ...  an  atrocious  old  man  with  black  teeth, 
but  he  does  stock  good  wines,  and  so  cheap.  .  .  .  His  wife 
caught  him  out  ogling  me  over  the  counter  one  day,  and  now 
she  won't  leave  the  shop,  so  the  old  demon  comes  round  here, 
and  brings  me  Chianti  on  the  sly,  hoping  to  melt  me.  There's 
not  the  slightest  chance  that  I  shall  be  melted,  but  you  don't 
think  it's  wrong  of  me  to  accept  the  wine,  do  you?  I  mean 
he  takes  the  risk  of  losing  all  and  gaining  nothing,  doesn't  he? 
...  Of  course  I  daren't  let  him  into  the  flat,  besides,  I  wouldn't 
do  such  a  thing!  No,  I  wouldn't,  because  I  don't  honestly 
think  it's  right,  if  his  wife  feels  like  that  about  me,  do  you, 
Mr.  Wright?  So  I  half  open  the  door  and  tell  him  to  leave 
the  bottles  outside  and  go  away  quietly  for  both  our  sakes! 
He  supposes  I've  got  a  jealous  husband  —  the  Italian  bandit 
kind,  with  ribbons  and  daggers  all  the  way  up  their  legs.  .  .  . 
And  just  fancy,  once  he  had  the  cheek  to  come  round  without 
any  wine  at  all,  and  said  —  well,  I  didn't  know  men  were  like 
that,  did  you,  Antonia?  But  I  sent  him  home  to  fetch  some 
pretty  quick.  Wouldn't  you  have?  "  appealing  to  the  Cor- 
poral, who  murmured  "  Mais  out,  certainement !  "  and  sat  down 
to  his  steak  as  to  a  serious  business.  He  shovelled  up  the  food 
strangely,  and  thought  how  beautiful  was  Zoe,  in  her  white 
frilly  dressing- jacket,  clouded  with  yellow  curls.  .  .  . 

"  Why  not  go  round  to  La  lloraine?  —  Deb  might  be  there," 
Antonia  suggested.  And  reluctantly  Richard  stood  up.  Deb 
was  a  nuisance  —  of  course  she  was  all  right.  He  disliked  La 
lloraine  and  Manon;  but  Zoe  and  her  doors  and  her  landlord 
and  her  Belgian  and  her  spaniel  and  her  lovers  and  her  stories, 
had  a  unique  flavour  of  attraction.  Any  further  develop- 
ments, comic  or  ridiculous,  might  occur  at  any  moment,  in 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  233 

this  atmosphere.  .  .  .  Sure  enough,  a  door  banged  four  flights 
of  stairs  away  .  .  .  scuffle  of  many  feet  approaching  —  and: 

"Why,  it's  Captain  Braithwaite,"  cried  Zoe,  in  a  clear, 
childish  treble  of  astonishment.  "And  did  you  find  little 
Becky  and  Mark  and  Joey  on  the  stairs?  What's  the  matter, 
Becky?  broken  your  scooter?  .  .  .  never  mind,  let  me  give 
you  a  ginger-snap  —  two  ginger-snaps  are  better  than  one 
scooter,  aren't  they?  What  a  pretty  drawing  of  a  thermometer, 
Joey?     Is  it  for  me?     Now  that  is  sweet  of  you." 

"  Mother  theyth  I'm  to  athk  you  to  'ave  a  look  at  me  thore 
throat,  Mith!  "  The  children  of  the  Second  Jewish  Tailor, 
whom  the  good-natured  Cavalry  officer  had  gathered  and 
brought  in  from  the  landing,  were  grouping  themselves  round 
Zoe's  Barrie-like  representation  of  the  lonely  little  mother  to 
whom  all  the  children  bring  their  troubles,  as  spontaneously 
and  efficiently  as  tliough  they  had  been  rehearsed  for  week^. 
Zoe  really  had  been  very  good  to  them  in  different  ways  at 
different  times,  and  their  present  adhesion  round  her  knees, 
in  full  view  of  a  beaming  Captain  Braithwaite,  was  her  reward. 

Antonia,  in  an  aside  to  Richard,  anxiously  questioned  her 
own  grotesque  fancy  that  yet  another  set  of  doors  had  just 
banged,  and  yet  more  footsteps  were  scuffling  and  clattering 
up  the  stairs :  "  This  flat  is  haunted  by  a  delusion  of  banging 
doors  —  listen !  " 

"  Listen !  "  echoed  Zoe,  smashed  into  sudden  silence  — "  It's 
Pinto!  "  she  whispered,  all  her  gay  resourcefulness  paralysed. 

"She  hears  it  too,"  Antonia  sighed  with  relief;  "I  don't 
mind  so  much  if  we're  all  raving  together!  "  And  indeed  it 
was  obviously  incredible  that  the  corpulent  whiskered  person 
who  was  projected  squealing  into  the  sitting-room,  by  an 
image  of  bony  yellow  ferocity,  could  be  otherwise  than  chimera. 
The  wine-bottles  which  the  pursued  swung  in  impotent  ara- 
besques from  either  hand,  erased  the  last  touch  of  credibility. 

"  Face  —  like  —  an  —  orang-outang  —  temper  — Patagonian 
savage  ..."  were  the  only  words  distinguishable  from  the 
yapping,  snapping  medley  of  limbs  and  bottles  and  vitupera- 
tion. 


234  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

There  was  a  crash  of  splintered  glass,  and  ruddy  liquid 
poured  into  pools  on  the  carpet,  and  Zoe  cried  out  to  Captain 
Braithwaite,  who  flung  his  big  form  on  top  of  the  belligerents 
and  wrenched  them  apart.  The  ensuing  sequence  of  events 
was  rather  too  nimble  for  disentanglement.  The  Italian  wine- 
and-macaroni  merchant  from  round  the  corner  collapsed  pant- 
ing—  then  rallied  his  faculties  and  bolted  for  the  door.  Zoe 
darted  in  his  wake,  and  returned  triumphant,  a  few  seconds 
afterwards,  carrying  the  second  and  undamaged  flask  of  Chi- 
anti.  Meanwhile  Pinto  had  vented  his  spleen  upon  the  Cav- 
alry oflScer,  the  landlord,  the  round-eyed  Belgian,  and  Richard, 
on  whom  each  in  turn  he  fastened  his  saga  of  "  face  like  an 
orang-outang  —  tempaire  of  a  P-P-Patagonian  savage!  "... 
The  return  of  Zoe  he  greeted  by  a  violent  and  uncomprehensible 
outbreak  of  what  was  certainly  bad  language  and  probably 
Portuguese;  informed  her  that  he  knew  all  about  it,  and  was 
done  with  her  for  ever  .  .  .  caught  up  a  chair  and  wrenched 
it  into  fragments  .  .  .  glared  viciously  at  the  innocent  amaze- 
ment of  Monsieur  le  Caporal;  jabbed  an  accusing  finger  at  him 
— "  You  —  yes,  it  is  you  —  you  may  have  her  —  she  is  worth 
nothing,  I  tell  you  —  stop  eating  and  take  her  —  take  her  — 
take  her!  "  lifting  the  remains  of  the  steak  from  the  plate  and 
flinging  it  across  to  the  window,  where  it  narrowly  missed  An- 
tonia — "Here  —  just  you  stop  that!"  Richard  ejaculated, 
doubling  fists  truculently. 

"  Leave  'im  alone.  Sonny  — 'e  dunno  wot  'e's  doing !  " 

The  finger  travelled  instantly  round  to  the  pacifist  — "  Whose 
is  this  house,  you ?  " 

"Mine!"  the  landlord  retorted,  putting  up  his  boots  on 
the  sofa  as  a  sign  of  ownership.  "  Nah  shut  up,  do  —  ladies 
present!  " 

"  It  is  then  you  with  the  face  and  the  temper?  " 

"  Face  and  temper  yourself!  "  from  Mr.  Sam  Wright,  which 
retort,  though  merely  made  in  the  way  of  casual  repartee,  was, 
had  the  assembled  company  only  known  it,  the  full  explanation 
of  the  scene  so  astounding  them. 

But  Pinto's  suspicions  made  a  last  leap  at  Captain  Raymond 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  235 

Braithwaite.  "  Take  her  " —  flourishing  with  both  arms  in 
Zoe's  direction.  "She  is  ungrateful,  unloyal.  True  affection 
is  not  to  be  found  in  her  nature.  She  lies  and  thieves;  she  is 
untidy  in  her  clothing;  she  has  betrayed  me  and  will  betray 
you.  Take  her  —  perhaps  your  temper  like  a  Patagonian  sav- 
age will  keep  her  in  order.  Take  her  emd  beat  her  if  you 
please.  Who  am  I  to  have  a  claim?  ,  .  ."  He  recapitulated 
the  entire  list  of  Zoe's  crimes,  linked  to  the  benefits  which  his 
easy-going  generosity  had  showered  upon  her ;  shed  tears  at  the 
recollection  of  his  own  innocent  confiding  trust  and  little  ten- 
der ways;  surpassed  himself  in  an  ebullition  of  Portuguese  and 
English  blended  into  one  final  expanding  monstrous,  wall- 
cracking,  hair-stiffening  execration,  anathema,  and  blight 

Antonia  stepped  forward,  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  You're  not  behaving  at  all  nicely,  and  we're  tired  of  you," 
she  said  gently  but  distinctly. 

Pinto,  checked  in  his  onrush  of  epithet,  rolled  round  at  her 
a  pair  of  livid,  yellow  eyeballs;  spluttered;  made  a  few  in- 
articulate sounds  in  his  throat  —  and  departed. 

No  one  could  deny  that  his  visit,  though  short,  had  been 
full  of  lively  colour. 

"  Ma  f oi !  "  said  the  Belgian  poilu,  still  gaping  stupidly  after 
his  steak. 

Richard  burst  into  a  shout  of  laughter,  and  went  on  laughing 
boyishly,  irresistibly.  It  was  infectious  .  .  .  presently  Sam 
Wright  joined  in,  and  Capteiin  Braithwaite,  and  Antonia,  and 
even  the  Belgian.  Zoe,  on  the  verge  of  tears,  was  the  last  to 
succumb.  ...  "At  least,  we've  got  some  wine  now,"  she 
gurgled,  divided  between  sobs  and  hysterical  mirth.  "And 
we'd  better  drink  it  —  it's  g-good  wine  and  so  cheap!  I'm 
glad  I  remembered  just  in  time  to  nip  it."  She  darted  away 
for  glasses  — "  But  honestly,  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  what 
Pinto  was  so  cross  and  unkind  about,  have  any  of  you?  " 

"He  did  seem  a  bit  annoyed:  what?"  guffawed  Captain 
Braithwaite,  "  Here's  to  his  good  recovery !  "  They  all  drank 
Pinto's  health  in  excellent  Chianti.  ...  A  bell  tinkled  from 
below. 


236  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"Oh  dear!  he  must  have  jammed  the  downstairs  front  door 
in  going  out,  and  now  people  can't  push  it  open.  I  do  think 
he  ought  to  control  himself  a  little  bit  better  than  that,  don't 
you?  I  mean,  it's  so  horrid  when  one  has  visitors."  The 
bell  tinkled  again  impatiently.     "Will  one  of  you  go  down?  " 

IV 

Deb  dawdled  along  the  street,  painfully  carrying  a  suit-case. 
La  lloraine  had  insisted  on  keeping  her  to  supper,  but  the 
Countess  was  occupying  the  only  vacant  room  in  the  house 
.  .  .  anyway,  you  could  always  rely  on  a  bed  at  Zoe's  when- 
ever you  turned  up  —  time  enough  tomorrow  to  think  things 
over.  .  .  . 

Somebody  was  already  on  the  doorstep  pealing  at  the  bell: 
"  The  door  usually  stands  open,  but  it  must  have  got  jammed. 
...  Do  you  want  tailor  Moses,  tailor  Jacob,  or  tailor  Isaac?  " 

**I  don't  want  a  tailor  at  all,  thanks.  Not  tonight,  any- 
how.    I  want  Zoe  Dene-Cresswell?     I  wonder  if  she's  in." 

Again  Gillian  tugged  at  the  bell.  "  You  look  as  if  you  ought 
to  be  Deb  Marcus." 

"  I  am." 

"  I'm  Gillian  Sherwood.  Put  down  your  suit-case  and  shake 
hands.     I'll  carry  it  up  for  you,  if  ever  they  admit  us." 

Gillian  at  last!  Deb  was  first  conscious  of  triumph  — 
followed  by  a  quick  pang  of  guilt.  She  had  not  sought  out 
this  meeting ;  it  was  purely  accidental  —  but  what  would  An- 
tonia  say? 

Antonia  opened  the  door  to  them. 


PART   III 


CHAPTER  I 


DEB  was  living  with  La  llorraine.  She  indignantly  re- 
fused to  return  home  on  the  understanding  that  she  was 
to  be  partially  forgiven  for  an  offence  she  had  never 
committed;  on  the  other  hand,  her  affection  for  Ferdie  caused 
her  a  pang  of  acute  misery  when  she  saw  how  the  belief  in  her 
sins  had  stripped  him  of  a  certain  chubby  contentment  which 
even  the  war  and  its  complications  had  hitherto  left  unimpaired. 
For  of  course  her  swift  dramatic  rupture  with  her  family  top- 
pled to  an  anti-climax.  Richard  took  home  the  tidings  of  her 
whereabouts ;  and  a  day  after  her  flight,  Aunt  Stella  appeared  at 
Zoe's  for  a  parley.  The  tolerance  of  the  period  did  not  permit 
an  erring  daughter  to  be  blasted  with  a  parent's  curse  and  left 
to  suicide  —  or  worse  —  in  the  dark  cold  streets  of  London. 
The  tolerance  of  the  period  sanctioned  some  natural  anxiety 
over  the  said  daughter's  material  welfare,  tentative  negotiations, 
and  a  return  home  to  a  great  deal  of  nagging  and  an  atmos- 
phere of  reproachful  discomfort.  Perhaps  Deb  foresaw  the 
final  item;  perhaps  also,  her  passionate  self-persuasion  that 
she  could  not  bear  continual  witnessing  of  Ferdie's  sighs  and 
worried  forehead,  was  the  outcome  of  a  guilty  suspicion  that 
it  was  more  by  haphazard  than  by  virtue  that  she  was  able  to 
mount  her  pedestal  and  stand  aggrieved  upon  it. 

"  It's  the  fault  of  my  very  lax  upbringing,"  she  argued  with 
the  guilty  suspicion. 

"Yes,  but " 

"  It's  lucky  that  I  have  a  certain  fundamental  standpoint 
of  moral  decency,"  with  crushing  pomposity. 

"Yes,  but " 

The  yes-buts  had  it. 

239 


240  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  I  can't  live  at  home  with  Aunt  Stella  hating  me  like  this," 
weakly. 

And  here  she  was  right.  Even  Ferdie  recognized  that  his 
sister  and  his  daughter  were  henceforth  not  likely  to  dwell 
together  in  a  state  of  affectionate  harmony.  Stella  had  been 
queer  about  Deb  ever  since  discovery  that  Deb  was  —  initiated. 
What  was  to  be  done?  And  then  La  llorraine  appeared  at 
Montagu  House,  an  emissary  from  Deb. 

"  My  dee-urr  —  leave  it  to  me." 

La  llorraine  was  magnificent,  she  was  Miladi,  she  was  Jose- 
phine Beauharnais,  and  Madame  de  Maintenon  and  Louise  de 
Querouaille,  Duchess  of  Portsmouth,  and  every  other  intrigu- 
ante of  foreign  history,  entrusted  with  dispatches  and  a  car- 
dinal's secret,  a  go-between  from  one  royal  court  to  another. 
She  wore  filmy  black,  a  huge  black  hat  cast  a  mysterious 
shadow  over  her  eyes;  she  wore  all  her  sables,  and  Parma 
violets;  and  fingered  them  meaningly  with  her  long  thin  white 
hands  as  though  they  were  a  symbol  of  a  lost  cause.  She 
flattered,  cajoled  and  hinted,  and  laid  down  her  cards  and 
picked  them  up  again;  and  her  speech  was  worldly  and  witty 
and  wise,  and  her  smile  was  maternal,  or  suggestive,  or  discreet, 
and  she  overwhelmed  Ferdie  Marcus  with  dupery  and  diplo- 
macy, and  left  him  quite  dazed,  but  convinced  that  the  arrange- 
ment made  was  the  only  one  possible  in  view  of  the  subtleties 
involved;  and  that  moreover  it  had  emanated  straight  from  him. 

"  So,  my  dee-urr,  you  join  us  in  our  humble  little  apparte- 
ment,  and  your  father  will  put  you  in  possession  of  your  own 
income.     Have  I  done  well?  " 

" — Turned  out  of  home  plus  a  cheque-book?  — that's  what 
I  call  an  eviction  de  luxe,"  laughed  Antonia,  when  Deb  told 
her  of  the  new  arrangement,  while  re-packing  her  suit-case  to 
quit  Zoe's  flat  five  days  after  her  weary  arrival.  Zoe  was  out 
at  rehearsal. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  pay  La  llorraine  per  week  for  board 
and  lodging?  " 

"  My-dee-urr,"  Deb  imitated  the  grand  manner  and  the  large 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  241 

gesture  by  which  her  future  landlady  had  dismissed  the  ques- 
tion— "  Zat  —  between  us?  it  shall  arrange  itself " 

Antonia  looked  enigmatic,  and  warned  Deb  that  the  first 
time  she  arrived  at  the  appartement,  and  found  her  breakfasting 
at  eleven  o'clock  in  a  dirty  wrapper  and  curl-papers,  in  the 
Venetian  drawing-room,  on  stale  mayonnaise,  with  La  Uorraine 
practising  scales,  and  Manon  being  demure  with  the  fishmonger 
because  the  canaille  wanted  to  be  paid,  she  would  intunediately 
haul  her  ofi^  to  an  environment  less  pictorial  but  more  hy- 
gienic. 

"  Fishmonger,  indeed !  "  Deb  turned  Quelle  Vie  out  of  the 
suit-case,  "  when  we  want  fish,  La  Uorraine,  pale  and  haughty, 
kisses  Manon  on  the  brow  and  goes  out  to  pawn  the  Crown 
Jewels;  then  she  brings  home  the  fish  and  chips  in  a  piece  of 
newspaper,  and  we  sit  down  to  enjoy  it  while  she  tells  us 
sniggering  anecdotes  of  fifth-rate  music  halls." 

"  Look  here,"  demanded  Cliffe,  striding  into  the  room,  "  I've 
been  interviewing  your  brother.  Deb,  and  he  says  that  little 
bit  of  mange  who  calls  himself  Otto  Redbury  is  responsible 
for  our  good  name  dragged  in  the  mud.  He  says  that  vermin- 
ous Dutchman  called  on  your  father  full  of  a  *  brivate  peesi- 
ness '  just  before  the  row.  What  I  want  to  know  is,  who  told 
him?  And  a  rumour  has  got  about  that  you  committed  suicide 
last  Friday  night.  That's  not  exactly  funny,  is  it?  We've  got 
to  track  those  scandals  to  their  sources.  You  don't  seem  to 
realize  how  serious  it  is.     Our  honour  is  at  stake!  " 

"  It's  so  good  of  you  to  include  mine,"  Deb  said  meekly. 
"  Sit  down,  Cliffe,  and  don't  rave.  I  suppose  I  started  them 
myself!  "  And  she  related  her  dramatic  confession  to  Samson 
Phillips.     And  Cliffe  listened,  frowning. 

"  But  this  is  all  hypothesis.  You  mentioned  no  names  to 
Phillips.  You  didn't  actually  specify  that  night  at  Seaview. 
I'm  not  reproaching  you  for  the  lie  itself.  Deb  —  that  wag 
merely  silly;  feminine  boasting.  But  Otto  must  have  got  his 
definite  facts  from  some  one  else,  and  I've  written  him  an  im- 
perative letter  on  the  subject.     It  begins:     *  Sir '" 


242  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  That's  not  highly  striking  or  original  in  itself,  ClifFe.  Why 
not  'Honey'?" 

Antonia  laughed.  "Tell  us  Otto's  answer  when  you  get  it, 
Cliff e.  I  respect  you  for  taking  a  strong  line!  "  But  Cliffe 
did  not  show  them  the  reply  he  received  from  Otto ;  he  studied 
it  in  solitude  and  bewildered  indignation.  What  could  the 
man  mean  by  reminding  him  of  a  certain  conversation  in  the 
Tube?  He  recalled,  with  an  effort,  having  once  travelled  in 
Otto's  company,  and  having  talked  a  great  deal  of  fantastic 
rubbish  for  Otto's  benefit,  but  he  was  quite  sure  that  not  the 
veriest  scavenger  could  have  picked  Deb's  name  from  among 
the  rubbish-heap  — "  I've  always  been  very  careful  over 
names.  .  .  ." 

II 

Deb,  taking  her  present  emancipation  as  a  vantage-point  for 
a  survey  of  her  past,  as  a  whole  and  in  segments  and  phases, 
arrived  at  a  conclusion  that  the  general  inadequacy  on  the 
amorous  side  was  due  to  foolish  compromise.  She  made  up 
her  mind,  therefore,  to  reform,  and  be  bad  —  thoroughly  bad. 
In  the  episode  with  Samson  she  had  proved  to  herself  that 
she  was  no  longer  fit  for  the  conventional  extreme  of  respectful 
love  and  sheltered  marriage.  Her  dilatory  sense  of  daring 
must  therefore  be  flogged  to  that  other  far  extreme  — "  I  hate 
betwixts  and  betweens!  " 

A  little  balm  of  self-deception  had  to  be  applied.  Hitherto 
she  had  been  more  or  less  under  home  supervision;  not  strin- 
gent supervision,  certainly;  but  a  background  of  loving  trust 
was  a  hindrance  in  itself.  Now  the  trust  had  been  withdrawn 
—  and  the  background.  Now  she  was  on  her  own  —  free  — 
disillusioned  —  slightly  embittered — (Deb  prodded  the  em- 
bitterment  anxiously  —  yes,  it  was  still  there.  .  .  .)  Now  she 
was  twenty-five  and  at  the  cross-roads 

Deb  did  not  realize  the  truism  that  even  as  every  woman's 
life  holds  material  for  one  novel,  so  that  generic  novel  may 
generically  and  with  perfect  application  bear  the  title: 
"  Cross-roads." 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  243 

She  had  been  on  the  lookout  for  the  hero  to  her  heroine, 
and  he  had  failed  in  the  appointment.  Now  she  was  in  search 
for  the  villain  to  her  adventures,  and  it  seemed  at  first  as 
though  he  would  prove  equally  elusive.  A  series  of  minor 
experiments  left  her  seriously  convinced  that  in  choice  of  a 
villain,  a  young  girl  cannot  be  too  careful.  ..."  He  must 

make  it  worth  while "     Perhaps  after  all  she  was  still  on 

the  same  old  quest  translated  into  different  terms. 

Meanwhile,  the  winter  passed;  and  early  spring  woke  her 
slightly  bilious  soul  to  fretfulness.  Her  habits  had  slackened 
to  harmony  with  her  environment  of  cosmopolitan  bohemian- 
ism;  but  whereas  a  bed  erected  in  the  Venetian  drawing-room 
and  covered  by  day  with  a  priceless  piece  of  embroidery, 
seemed  to  La  llorraine  all  that  was  necessary  in  the  way  of  a 
tiring-room  — "  My  dee-urr,  you  can  use  Manon's  mirror  as 

your  own  —  it  goes  without  saying "  yet  Deb  was  not 

quite  happy  at  the  general  sloppiness  of  tea-gowns  and  mys- 
terious foreigners  and  rich  meals  at  all  hours  —  or  at  no 
hours  —  Carmen  for  breakfast,  Tosca  for  supper,  and  out-of- 
season  dishes  in  between  —  music-hall  managers  strolling  in  to 
slap  "  my  good  llorraine  "  familiarly  between  the  shoulders, 
and  look  avariciously  at  Manon,  who,  however,  a  child  of 
mummers  and  motley,  was  interrogated  with  a  strictness  which 
Deb,  daughter  of  strictest  Israel,  would  never  for  a  moment 
have  suffered.  But  La  llorraine  knew  more  of  her  world  and 
was  wiser  in  education  than  Ferdinand  Marcus;  La  llorraine, 
who  sometimes  put  on  enormous  horn  spectacles  and  sat  knit- 
ting by  the  fire;  and  sometimes  rose  up  like  a  prophetess  and 
tossed  a  pair  of  desperate  arms  to  Heaven,  in  denunciation 
of  that  war  which  prevented  return  to  a  beloved  continent 
which  knew  something  of  good  music;  La  llorraine  was  equally 
genuine  and  lovable  in  either  mood;  and  Deb  grew  to  be  sin- 
cerely fond  of  her.  But  Manon  was  another  matter;  Manon, 
at  eighteen,  held  to  her  pose  of  exiled  princess,  a  slender 
figure  in  the  vast  loneliness  of  the  drawing-room  —  a  lonely 
little  heart  mysteriously  unsoiled  by  contact  with  aforesaid 
mummers  and  motley.     She  listened  charmingly  when  Deb 


244  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

scattered  ethics  of  rebellion;  she  appeared  slightly  shocked 
when  decorum  demanded  that  she  should  be  shocked  —  and 
yet  —  and  yet  —  for  all  the  demureness  of  reproving  eyelash 

and  "  Oh,  but,  Deb "  in  the  pretty  lisping  accent,  Deb 

could  not  be  rid  of  an  impression  that  when  it  came  to  it, 
Manon  would  go  further  and  fare  a  great  deal  better  than  her- 
self. Manon  had  hitched  her  wagon  to  a  fixed  star,  whereas 
it  looked  as  though  Deb  had  hitched  hers  to  a  travelling  circus. 

*'  We've  had  enough  of  this,"  exclaimed  Antonia,  an  unex- 
pected visitor  after  a  tour  in  the  car  which  had  lasted  the  whole 
of  February  — "  Not  dressed  yet?  and  it's  nearly  twelve  o'clock; 
sluggish  appetite? — no  wonder,  if  you  smoke  scented  ciga- 
rettes with  your  coffee  and  eggs.     Even  as  I  prophesied!  " 

"  Don't  be  hard  on  me,"  Deb  pleaded ;  "  I'm  not  entirely 
dead  to  better  things  —  really,  Antonia.  I  feel  the  call  of 
Spring  urging  me  out  and  out.  .  .  .  Let's  go  to  a  cinema,  shall 
we?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  we  shall  gird  up  our  loins  and  do  war- 
work,  my  child,"  grimly.  "  We  shall  speak  to  our  mothers 
and  ask  them  what  particular  niche  is  vacant  for  one  willing 
but  ignorant  daughter  of  pleasure,  and  we  shall  send  word 
of  the  result  by  this  evening  latest.  And  meanwhile,  we  will 
withdraw  our  plaits  that  writhe  like  blue-black  serpents  among 
the  exquisite  but  macabre  foliage  of  last  year's  tablecloth,  and 
put  away  the  dregs  of  green  chartreuse,  and  sit  up  and  comb 
ourselves  out,  and  try  to  be  a  credit  to  a  nation  at  war." 

Deb  laughed  and  said  she  was  quite  willing  to  do  war-work, 
and  had  meant  to  enrol  herself  for  some  time,  but  had  thought 
it  too  late.  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  I  think  the  war  may  be  trusted  to  last  another  month 
or  two." 

"  I  meant,"  in  fractious  explanation,  "  that  it  always  seems 
to  me  too  late  to  do  something  afterwards  which  one  hasn't 
done  before." 

"  Lazy  little  Oriental.  .  .  .  You  will  visit  my  mother  at  6 
p.  M.  precisely  this  evening  and  receive  your  instructions," 
with  which  Antonia  departed. 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  245 

"  Blair  Stevenson  is  said  to  be  coming  back  to  the  Foreign 
Office  "  was  the  sub-conscious  wriggle  of  motive  underlying  her 
sincere  belief  that  Deb  would  be  the  better  for  a  more  strenuous 
existence. 

For  Blair  Stevenson,  in  the  Diplomatic  Service,  was  Gillian's 
friend;  Antonia  liked  him,  appreciating  to  the  full  his  supple 
wit  and  undeniably  perfect  breeding;  his  pursuit  of  her  was 
ardent  enough  for  her  to  enjoy  keenly  the  sensation  of  flying 
...  he  never  drew  near,  and  presently  the  pursuit  slackened; 
he  was  sent  abroad  —  British  Resident  of  some  West  African 
province;  and  when  he  returned,  fell  easily  into  place  as  one 
of  her  group  —  an  excellent  occasional.  Antonia  was  aware 
that  he  was  still  on  good  terms  with  Gillian  .  .  .  and  that  if 
accidentally  he  met  Deb  there — "  What  does  it  matter?  "  But 
the  fierce  desire  persisted  to  keep  the  child  .  .  .  pure. 

The  eventful  climax  of  the  meeting  between  Gillian  and  Deb 
on  Zoe's  doorstep,  Antonia  accepted  quietly  and  almost  with 
relief.  It  had  happened,  and  there  was  no  more  to  be  done  — 
by  her  at  least.  A  week  afterwards  she  was  forced  to  leave 
London  —  her  Major-General  was  perpetually  touring  and  in- 
specting and  dashing  hither  and  thither.  Deb  in  her  letters 
had  spoken  no  further  word  of  Gillian  (Deb  was  afraid,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  knowing  Antonia's  probable  state  of  mind),  but 
Gillian,  in  divine  unconsciousness,  dashed  off  a  hasty  postcard 
on  which  "  dear  Deb,"  struck  out,  was  replaced  by  "  dear 
Antonia."  It  was  probably  the  only  card  Gillian  could  find 
amongst  the  frenzied  litter  on  a  desk  which  Winifred  ought 
to  have  kept  tidy  .  .  .  but  it  told  Antonia  all  she  wanted  to 
know  —  all  that  she  did  not  want  to  know:  Deb  and  Gillian 
were  getting  on  nicely.  .  .  . 

And  now  Blair  was  returning.  For  all  her  liking  of  Blair's 
society,  she  infinitely  preferred  him  in  Greece,  where  he  was  at 
least  safe  from  the  result  of  Cliffe's  parties  or  Gillian's  intro- 
ductions. .  .  .  Antonia  could  not  be  for  ever  vigilant  .  .  . 
the  Major-General  was  beckoning  once  more 

And  then  came  that  sunny  letter  from  Cliffe  Kennedy  in- 
forming her  of  a  marvellous  studio  party  he  had  arranged. 


246  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  I  borrowed  your  studio  as  usual,  and  you  can  have  Seaview 
in  the  summer  whenever  you  want  it.  These  are  little  eddies 
of  communal  brotherhood  that  one  day  will  unite  to  a  surging 
river  that  will  sweep  away,  etc. " 

Antonia  skipped  a  page  or  two  till  the  names  she  sought, 
dreading  to  find,  sure  to  find,  sprang  at  her  from  the  page  — 
"  Blair  Stevenson  —  Deb.  .  .  ." 

..."  I  had  a  sort  of  presentiment  that  something  was 
bound  to  happen  if  I  brought  those  two  together.  .  .  .  And 
again,  Antonia,  my  experimental  nerve  had  twitched  to  some 
purpose.  Bet  you  a  copy  of  the  Omar  Khayyam  (I've  got 
seventy-two)  that  this  fusion  of  personalities  will  have  Results 
—  dramatic  or  beautiful  or  horrid.  .  .  .  Do  come  home  and 
join  the  audience —  I'm  so  excited." 

Ill 

Deb,  entirely  absorbed  in  her  canteen  work,  had  given  up 
scanning  the  horizon  for  the  villain  of  the  piece;  so  that  it 
was  with  a  shock  that  she  looked  up  and  found  him  standing 
quite  close  to  her,  waiting  for  his  cue.  .  .  .  Almost  she  hoped 
that  he  would  prove  not  worth  while.  .  .  .  Those  nights  under 
the  gaunt  station  roof,  watching  the  restless  watchers  for  the 
leave  train,  watching  the  grimy  burdened  soldiers  tumble  with 
dazed  eyes  out  of  their  compartments  on  to  the  platform  .  .  . 
till  roused  to  the  necessity  for  rapid  mechanical  dole  of  coffee 
and  sandwiches  —  wash  up  —  start  afresh  —  hour  after  hour. 
.  .  .  These  nights  had  become  more  real  than  the  arrange- 
ment and  re-arrangement  of  her  own  temperament. 

But  Blair  was  so  definitely  worth  while  that  Deb  dared 
not  refuse  him  as  a  prospective  —  what?  The  old  dream  was 
dead,  of  course  .  .  .  dream  of  the  big  thing  —  husband  who 
knew  of  all  her  past  idiocies,  and  called  her  a  goose  and 
laughed  at  her,  and  understood;  small  sturdy  boy  in  a  dark 
blue  jersey  and  rimipled  hair  several  shades  too  light  for  such 
a  brown  skin.  ..."  You  are  being  not  only  sentimental,  but 
also  futile!  "  she  informed  herself.  "  Next  there  will  be  pretty 
fancies  all  about  a  dream-garden  " —  and  straightway  there 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  247 

was  the  garden,  at  the  magical  hour  of  after-tea  when  the  grass 
looks  as  though  it  had  been  freshly  painted  emd  the  canterbury 
bells  are  adrip  from  recent  watering.  .  .  . 

Sternly  Deb  removed  husband,  child  and  gardai  by  the 
dream-scruff  of  their  dream-necks, —  she  sought  for  some  deli- 
cate means  to  enlighten  Blair  Stevenson  of  her  willingness 
to  —  to 

Self-communion  slurred  over  the  verbal  expression  of  good 
—  or  bad  —  intent.  For  it  refused  to  present  itself  with  more 
elegeuice  than  "  to  go  the  whole  hog  " —  and  such  blatant  slang 
did  not  associate  itself  readily  with  Blair's  personality. 

"  To  fulfil  my  womanhood," —  but  that  sounded  priggish. 
*'  To  tread  the  primrose  path  "  was  affectation.  "  To  take  a 
lover  "  was  the  final  selection  —  but  still  imperfect.  She  chose 
it  for  the  sake  of  the  word  "  lover  "  which  still  hummed  to  her 
on  that  deep  sonorous  note  of  wind  along  the  wires  .  .  . 
"  lover." 

Meanwhile,  her  watchfulness  lay  in  ambush  for  that  splendid 
flare  of  passion  which  was  to  be  her  impetus  and  justification. 
She  had  a  passionate  temperament.  .  .  .  How  could  it  be 
otherwise,  with  those  eyelids  and  that  mouth?  Men  and 
women  alike  had  accused  her  of  hot  Eastern  blood;  insisted 
upon  it;  warned  her,  laughing  or  in  envy,  of  the  penalties. 
She  accepted  this  established  version  of  herself  in  an  un- 
questioning spirit. 

"  Child,  you'd  lead  a  man  to  hell !  "  a  victim  had  once  fore- 
told. Now  she  waited  for  a  man  to  lead  her  to  hell.  She 
could  at  least  be  assured  that  Blair  Stevenson  would  instinct- 
ively and  unostentatiously  choose  quite  the  least  travelled 
and  the  most  refined  and  expensive  route  thither.  He  was 
that  kind  of  man;  with  a  reputation,  but  not  a  vulgar  one, 
for  success  with  women.  Deb,  seeking  to  express  crudely  the 
sense  he  aroused  of  having  dipped  to  her  class  from  that  elusive 
class  which  lies  midway  between  the  upper  middle-class  and 
the  aristocracy,  told  herself  in  confidence  that  he  made  her 
feel  not  unlike  a  housemaid  being  took  notice  of  by  one  of  the 
quality.     Hitherto,  most  of  the  men  with  whom  she  had  come 


248  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

in  contact,  could  be  tabulated  as  solid  business  or  professional 
—  like  Samson  or  her  own  father;  or  else  urged  by  the  preva- 
lent rebellion  to  type,  into  the  artist  or  vagabond  pose  —  like 
Cliffe  Kennedy. 

Blair  Stevenson  was  of  such  excellent  family  that  he  never 
mentioned  his  family;  probably  most  of  it  was  extinct,  and 
the  rest  knew  better  than  to  encircle  him  save  at  a  distance. 
He  had  travelled  extensively  both  in  cities  and  in  the  wilds, 
so  that  he  combined  cosmopolitan  ease  with  the  British  knack 
of  being  able  to  cope  with  emergencies.  Although  he  was 
not  much  more  than  thirty-five,  the  Foreign  Office  had  already 
recognized  his  perfect  tact  and  suavity,  combined  with  knowl- 
edge of  languages,  to  be  extremely  useful  to  them;  so  that 
he  was  accounted  one  of  those  mysterious  beings  "  in  the 
know";  "behind  the  scenes";  one  of  the  men  who  "pulled 
strings."  .  .  .  He  had  been  entrusted  with  a  rather  tricky 
mission  to  the  Balkans,  prior  to  his  present  leave.  His  natural 
appendages  and  equipments  one  would  assume  to  be  a  faithful 
valet  in  his  town  chambers,  a  faithful  maitre  d'hotel  in  every 
capital,  and  a  faithful  mistress  no  one  knows  where;  because 
Stevenson,  though  ardent,  was  discreet  where  women  were 
concerned;  but  certainly  the  carriage  of  her  head  proclaimed 
her  exquisite  breeding,  and  she  cost  him  a  great  deal  of 
money.  .  .  . 

And  all  this  about  him,  speculative  and  positive,  did  not 
quite  convey  why  Deb  was  not  always  sure  (metaphorically) 
how  to  use  her  knives  and  forks  in  his  presence.  Easy  to  make 
mistakes  —  tiny,  silly  mistakes  of  conduct  or  subtlety  —  and 
read  in  his  eyes  a  dawning  recognition  that  she  was  not  quite 
"  it "  after  all,  or  his  amusement  perhaps  at  her  quaint  lapses 
from  sophistication :  "  Am  I  an  amateur  compared  with 
what  he's  accustomed  to?  "  Then  angrily:  "Oh,  he  swanks, 
and  I'm  a  snob !  "  which  was  inaccurate.  He  took  "  form  " 
for  granted,  and  she  was  shaky  about  it.  Blair  Stevenson 
could  be  relied  on  for  good  manners;  not  so  much  the  surface 
good  manners  connected  with  the  graceful  opening  of  doors 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  249 

for  the  lady's  exit,  but  the  more  fundamental  good  manners 
which  broke  a  heart  as  a  heart  would  most  wish  to  be  broken. 

W 

"  I've  waited  long  enough,"  said  Deb. 

It  suddenly  frightened  her  that  again  she  was  hesitating  too 
long;  that  decision  was  wearing  thin  and  threadbare  with 
the  days.  .  .  .  Perhaps  Blair  had  not  realized  ...  it  must 
be  puzzling  for  a  man  nowadays  to  differentiate  between  the 
merely  good;  the  frankly  bad;  the  good  trying  to  be  bad;  and 
the  bad  resolved  to  be  good. 

"  I  suppose  he  needs  what  Aunt  Trudchen  used  to  call  '  a 
little  encouragement,'  "  Deb  reflected. 

Then  by  what  sign  could  she  convey  to  him  that  her  inten- 
tions were  dishonourable?  They  had,  of  course,  dispassion- 
ately talked  of  sex,  which  is  the  weather-subject  of  today's 
men  and  girls.  .  .  .  Deb  was  afraid,  standing  on  tiptoe  to 
the  clubman  and  the  cosmopolitan,  that  she  might  have  given 
an  excessive  impression  of  sophistication;  and  that  he  was 
inwardly  astonished,  now,  that  she  delayed  to  pass  him  some 
customary  code-word  or  countersign  necessary  to  his  advance- 
ment. She  had  not  the  faintest  idea  what  was  expected  of 
her,  so  she  essayed  a  semi-confidence  in  La  llorraine. 

That  royal  veteran  of  a  more  clear-headed  period,  when 
courtesans  were  expected  to  know  their  alphabet,  could  not 
fail  to  be  good-humouredly  contemptuous  at  the  spectacle  of 
these  children  playing  their  variations  of  an  old  game  with 
such  quaint  and  ponderous  seriousness;  and  getting  so  very 
little  out  of  it  in  the  way  of  genuine  passion,  genuine  fun,  and 
ermine  cloaks. 

Out  of  the  question,  certainly,  that  Manon  should  join  these 
games.  But  Deb  was  six  years  older  and  had  "  made  a  muff 
from  her  chances,"  as  Manon  would  never  be  permitted  to  do. 
Moreover,  Deb  was  not  La  llorraine's  own  daughter.  ...  So 
La  llorraine  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  gave  her  the  neces- 
sary tip. 


250  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

Deb  was  on  her  way  to  call  upon  Blair  Stevenson  unex- 
pectedly at  his  rooms  in  Jermyn  Street.  It  was  a  quarter 
past  ten  in  the  evening,  and  because  she  had  just  been  relieved 
from  duty  at  Victoria  Station,  she  was  wearing  a  long  disguising 
cloak  over  silk  garments  that  slip  on  the  skin  with  a  suggestion 
of  suave  fingers.  Blair  was  at  home  —  she  had  telephoned 
during  the  day,  and,  preserving  an  incognito,  had  asked  the 
valet  what  would  be  the  best  time  to  telephone  again?  The 
valet  said:  "I  believe  that  ten  o'clock  tonight  will  be  most 
likely  to  find  Mr.  Stevenson."  .  .  .  Bleiir  would  realize  the 
significance  of  her  visit;  and  —  and  once  lifted  to  response, 
her  fatal  temperament  could  be  relied  upon  to  do  the  rest. 

"  I've  waited  long  enough.  Oh,  suppose  I  waited  till  nobody 
wanted  me  any  more,  and  then  I  wanted  it  more  than  any- 
thing else.  .  .  ." 

She  leant  against  the  door  for  a  pause  of  short,  quick  breath- 
ing. The  neighbourhood,  the  steps  and  passage,  the  windows, 
were  all  discreet  good  form,  world  of  the  clubman,  the  cosmo- 
politan, the  man  who  knows  .  .  .  utterly  alien  world  to  the 
forlorn  little  virgin,  who  stands,  suddenly  erect  and  stiff  and 
pearly-white;  thumb  pressed  firmly  on  the  bell-button  of 
No.  14lB. 

"  It's  now.  .  .  ." 

Queer  —  never  before  had  she  realized  the  present  so  vividly; 
"  it  has  been  a  minute  ago,"  "  it  will  be  the  day  after  to-mor- 
row "...  but  "  It's  now,"  as  Blair,  with  a  smile  and  a 
subtle  look,  threw  away  his  half-smoked  cigar,  took  the  half- 
finished  cup  of  coffee  from  her  hands. 

"  Now  —  now " 

She  was  one  pulse  that  beat  for  initiation.  Her  cheap 
artist  feuicy  had  always  decorated  the  temple  of  initiation  so 
heavily  with  incense  and  tiger-skins  and  divans  and  rose-leaves, 
all  the  crude  stock  and  properties  of  rapture,  that  the  reality 
of  this  ordinary  room,  big  leather  arm-chairs  and  a  few  prints 
on  the  plain  dark  walls,  and  a  bookcase,  and  several  ash-trays 
scattered  about,  this  so  essentially  a  man-room,  left  her  dis- 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  251 

appointed.  Had  she  relied  too  much  upon  the  trappings? 
.  .  .  but  —  Blair  had  taken  her  in  his  arms,  now.  .  .  . 

And  still  no  response  from  that  —  that  most  damnably  slug- 
gish temperament. 

Very  precisely  and  dispassionately  she  noticed  for  the  first 
time  that  one  of  his  lids  lay  over  the  eye  with  a  heavier  slouch 
than  the  other.  She  was  pleased  with  the  behaviour  of  his 
face  under  stress  of  emotion  ...  it  did  not  grow  hot  nor  red 
nor  damp;  the  veins  did  not  bulge;  his  breath  was  under 
control.  She  had  been  right  in  her  selection  of  Blair  Stevenson 
—  but  —  but 

The  ungrateful  temperament,  which  she  had  provided  with 
the  best  advantages,  was  failing  her  utterly.  .  .  . 

She  kissed  his  exacting  lips  with  as  much  of  faked  ecstasy 
as  she  could  coax  to  her  aid,  and  then  wondered,  supposing 
she  laughed, —  the  word  ecstasy  always  made  her  want  to 
laugh  —  if  that  indecorum  could  be  passed  ofif  as  further 
ecstasy? 

And  all  this  time  she  did  Stevenson  the  injustice  of  believing 
him  imperceptive. 

"  Deb  .  .  .  my  dear.  .  .  ." 

He  had  from  the  beginning  philosophically  summed  her  up 
as  incapable  of  extremes.  But  it  was  not  as  though  he  were 
dependent.  ...  He  did  not  love  Deb;  he  was  a  little  bit  in 
love  with  her;  and  she  was  elfish,  delicate,  captivating,  freshly 
surprising  at  each  encounter,  like  in  June  the  first  strawberry 
whose  unremembered  flavour  one  has  taken  for  granted  through 
the  winter  months.  Yes,  she  was  charming.  And  he  was 
wrong  in  his  estimate  of  her.  After  all,  she  had  come  to 
him 

One  tiny  gesture  of  his  —  and  Deb's  histrionics  lay  shat- 
tered like  a  wave  into  foam.  .  .  . 

"  No  ...  no  ...  no  —  not  now.  .  .  .  Oh,  please!  " 

A  moment  later,  and  Blair  said,  from  the  other  end  of  the 
room :  "  There  was  no  need  for  that  '  please,'  dear.  The 
first  '  no  '  would  have  been  enough." 


252  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

She  lay  angrily  sobbing,  hair  not  even  disordered,  her  drap- 
ings  of  pale  ninon  shamefully  untumbled.  The  desperate  en- 
counter had  yielded  her  one  scrap  of  self-knowledge  —  nothing 
else:  That  she  was  not  in  the  least  passionate  by  nature,  and 
that  only  love  could  raise  her  nature  to  passion;  that  she  had 
been  misled  all  her  life  by  a  mere  illusion  deduced  by  herself 
and  others  from  her  face  and  her  way  of  moving,  and  her  reck- 
lessness of  speech  and  her  Jewish  pliability.  ...  To  her 
mother  who  was  a  Gentile,  was  due  this  slight  chilliness,  blown 
like  a  hoar-frost  over  what  might  otherwise  have  been  an  exotic 
blossoming. 

And  the  man  by  the  window  murmured:  "'To  play  at 
half  a  love  with  half  a  lover,'  ...  is  that  what  you  wanted, 
child,  and  couldn't  express?     I  didn't  understand.     Well " 

He  crossed  again  to  the  couch  and  stood  looking  down  upon 
her,  hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  mouth  bent  to  a  whimsical 
smile  — "  Well  —  It's  not  too  late,  is  it?  " 

For  that  explanation  both  solved  the  enigma  of  her  visit, 
and  coincided  with  his  former  conception  of  her.  The  surprise 
had  been  her  acquiescence,  not  her  rebuff. 

She  looked  up  at  him  pitifully,  and  shook  her  head.  .  .  . 
His  mouth  grew  hard:  if  not  mistress,  nor  demi-maid,  then 
what  did  she  expect  he  would  make  of  her?  Surely  she  could 
not  be  hoping.  .  .  .  Blair  Stevenson's  wife,  if  ever  materialized 
from  wraithdom,  would  not  be  the  sort  of  girl  who  came  to 
his  rooms  alone  at  10:15  p.m.  Nor  would  his  mistress  — 
she  not  at  all  a  wraith  —  plead  to  leave  them  again  after  a 
futile  half-hour  of  compromise.  No,  Deb  (and  he  still  thought 
her  charming)  was  qualified  not  for  chastity  nor  for  fierce 
desire.  .  .  .  What  did  she  want  of  him? 

Her  intuition  leapt  to  what  was  passing  in  his  mind;  and 
in  stinging  agony  that  he  should  behold  in  her  a  huntress  for 
a  likely  husband,  she  said  quickly  — "  I  did  —  I  did  want  to 
play  —  only  to  play.     But  —  you  frightened  me.  .  .  ." 

"  Forget  that.  I'm  getting  old  and  dense.  And  all  men 
try  .  .  .  once,  you  know.     But  it's  all  right.  Deb.  .  .  ." 

It  was  all  right  —  now;  at  the  demi-price  of  her  demi-virtue, 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  253 

she  had  saved  at  least  that  tattered  beggar-maid  she  still  called 
her  pride.  "  I  believe  you  thought  I  had  come  with  a  matri- 
monial lasso  coiled  up  in  my  hand,"  she  taunted  him. 

And  Blair  was  deceived,  for  all  his  penetration.  How  was 
he  to  know,  indeed,  that  daringly  as  she  had  repudiated  his 
suspicion,  in  a  little  backwater  of  thought  trembled  still  an 
eddy  from  old  times  and  old  traditions:     "  It  —  would  —  have 

—  been  —  rather  nice  .  .  .  to  marry  him.  .  .  ."  But  you  have 
just  proved  you  are  not  in  love  with  him.  "Oh  —  that  kind 
of  thing  —  wouldn't  matter.  I  believe  it  would  grow  of  itself 
...  if  he  were  looking  after  me."  Her  set  smile  curved  into 
real  merriment  as  it  struck  her  how  Samson  would  approve 
of  these  sentiments.  Perhaps  she  and  Samson  were  kindred 
souls,  after  all! 

But  Samson  would  most  certainly  not  have  approved  of  her 
present  abandonment  to  a  demi-lover.  She  lay  with  an  apa- 
thetic hand  straying  over  his  hair  and  eyebrows,  wondering  a 
little  at  the  hard  cheek  pressed  close  to  hers,  wondering  a 
little  .  .  .  how  soon  she  could  say  it  was  time  to  go,  whether 
there  were  any  letters  waiting  for  her  at  home,  if  that  pale 
young  lance-corporal  who  had  fainted  as  she  put  the  coffee- 
cup  into  his  hands,  had  recovered  yet;  wondering  a  little,  as 
Blair  shifted  their  positions,  and  drew  her  head  down  to  where 
his  shirt  opened  on  to  his  heart  —  Did  Blair  really  enjoy  this? 
ought  she  not  to  say  she  was  uncomfortable  and  had  a  crick 
in  her  neck?     Whether  she  were  now  what  is  called  a  sinner? 

—  pecheresse  in  French  ...  or  was  it  pecheuse?  one  of  them 
meant  the  "  fisherman's  wife  " —  she  remembered  that  from 
school  —  yes,  pecheuse,  surely  —  they  were  taught  to  tell  the 
difference  by  the  resemblance  of  the  circumflex  to  the  roof  of 
the  fisherman's  hut.  The  other  has  an  accent  aigii  —  but  Deb 
had  never  been  quite  able  to  disentangle  a  vague  notion  that  a 
fisherman's  wife  was  also  a  sinner.  Pecheuse  —  pecher* 
esse  .  .  . 

She  wondered  anew  if  that  monstrosity  on  the  wall  opposite 
were  a  Hogarth?  if  her  watch  would  be  mended  by  tomorrow, 
as  the  man  at  the  shop  had  faithfully  promised?  .  .  . 


254  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"Are  you  happy,  you  small  white  Deb?  " 
She  sighed  "Yes.  .  .  ." 

"  You  must  come  to  me  often  now  we  understand  each 
other.  .  .  ." 
And  again:     "Yes  .  .  .  often.  ..." 


CHAPTER   II 


ANTONIA  stood  in  the  empty  room  in  Bayswater,  reading 
a  scrawl  of  explanation  which  Gillian  had  left  behind 
for  her  on  the  dusty  mantelpiece.  The  floor  was  lit- 
tered with  bits  of  straw  and  string,  a  broken  teacup,  some 
torn-up  MSS.,  an  old  stocking  and  a  tin  of  Bluebell  polish 
.  .  .  her  foot  struck  against  the  latter,  and  it  rolled  towards 
the  tin  fender  and  stopped  with  a  forlorn  clank.  .  .  . 

"  My  dear  —  I've  decided  to  go  and  live  with  Theo  —  why 
not?  You'll  find  me  here  if  you  come  this  afternoon,  54 
Middle  Inn  Gardens.  I'm  leaving  behind  a  bottle  of  Elliman's 
Embrocation,  because  I  haven't  room  for  it.  Bring  it  along, 
and  anything  else  you  see  lying  about.     Yours,  Jill." 

"  So  she's  done  it  at  last."  Slowly  Antonia  left  the  house, 
came  back  for  the  Embrocation,  could  not  find  it,  and  went  on 
to  Middle  Inn  Square  with  the  Bluebell  polish  as  a  substitute. 
With  an  air  more  than  ever  slim  and  defiant  and  passion-free, 
she  swung  into  Gillian's  presence 

"Jill!" 

"  It  was  —  this  —  or  sharing  him  with  fifty  others,"  the  cul- 
prit explained  coolly.  She  did  not  look  in  the  least  like  the 
famous  bacteriologist,  as  she  sat  astride  a  wooden  packing-case, 
tugging  with  giant  pincers  at  a  refractory  nail ;  hair  rakish  from 
the  frequent  tumbling  of  her  fingers ;  eyes  two  greenish  slits  of 
roguery;  cigarette  tilted  well  upwards  from  the  corner  of  her 
mouth.  She  did  not  look  like  a  heroine  of  passion  either.  .  .  . 
Her  blouse  was  open  and  her  sleeves  rolled  up,  and  her  short 
navy-blue  skirt  was  smeared  with  white  where  she  had  leant 
against  some  wet  paint. 

"You  can  help  me  unpack  while  you  disapprove.     That 

255 


256  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

lazy  little  cat  Winnie  has  gone  off  to  spend  the  day  with 
Camellia." 

"  Winnie?     She's  still  with  you?  " 

"  My  dear,  what  was  I  to  do  with  her?  I  couldn't  send  her 
home  again  just  because  of  a  whim  of  mine.  It  wouldn't  be 
fair.     She  isn't  happy  at  home " 

Antonia  sat  down  helplessly.  "  A  year  ago  Deb  gets  turned 
out  of  home,  plus  an  income.  Now  you  elope,  plus  Winifred 
Potter.  You're  a  pair  to  make  any  friend  of  yours  hysteri- 
cal. .  .  ." 

"A  little  more,  and  I'd  have  despatched  Winifred  labelled 
right-side-up  as  a  farewell  present  to  you,"  Gillian  retorted 
grimly.  "  But  she'll  do  for  Theo  to  flirt  with  in  his  lighter 
moments." 

"Theo's  are  mostly  lighter  moments,  aren't  they?  Jill,  I 
wouldn't  have  minded  the  sacrifice;  I  wouldn't  have  said  a 
single  word  ...  if  he'd  been  worthy."  She  was  ice-white 
with  the  conviction  of  his  unworthiness. 

Gillian  said  nothing  for  a  minute  or  two.  She  still  sat  bent 
over  the  packing-case,  one  leg  on  either  side  of  it  wrenching 
at  the  wood.  Then :  "  Much  need  for  sacrifice  with  a  man 
who's  worthy!  " 

"  Then  you  admit  he  isn't?  "  Antonia  sprang  up.  "  Oh, 
Gillian,  if  you  must  try  a  theory " 

"Theory?  Good  Lord!  Nothing  of  that  sort.  It's  just 
that  Theo  isn't  big  enough  or  good  enough,  if  you  like,  to  re- 
main faithful  and  decent  and  honourable  to  a  woman  who's 
only  his  spiritual  love.  Why  pretend? — we  all  know  what 
Theo  is!  "  she  shrugged  her  thin  shoulders  and  flashed  a  wide 
smile  up  at  her  friend  — "  He's  clever  —  with  a  sort  of  mali- 
cious destructive  cleverness.  Otherwise  just  an  amorous  gut- 
ter-snipe, who  can't  resist  anything  of  the  other  sex  —  a  Zoe 
in  male.  His  reputation  is  a  joke  —  I've  heard  scores  of  peo- 
ple chuckling  over  the  latest  Theo  Pandos  story." 

"  You  know  this  —  and  still " 

"  I  know  it  —  and  because.  He  won't  do  without  the  others 
—  but  he  can't  do   without  me.     Look  here,  you  blooming 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  257 

Artemis,  I  justify  myself  to  you  just  this  once  and  never  again. 
Understand  this.  That  little  rotter  is  my  .  .  .  completion, 
if  you  like;  the  answer  to  my  special  quantity  of  X.  It's  a 
pity,  I'm  sure,  that  it  didn't  happen  to  be  some  one  grand  and 
distinguished  and  austere,  who'd  spend  all  day  long  renouncing 
me,  and  all  night  long  being  nobly  glad  that  he  did  so. 
Can  you  see  Theo  being  glad  he's  renounced  any  one,  ever?  " 
again  the  swift  joyous  grin.  .  .  .  Antonia  could  not  help  re- 
turning it. 

"  Theo's  got  a  wife,  I  believe?  " 

"  Oh,  curse  her,  yes.  A  Spanish  Catholic  who  won't  divorce 
him.  A  dark  flashing  thing  who  looks  all  passion  and  Carmen 
and  castanets.     She's  no  earthly  use  to  him." 

"Gillian,  you're  a  thoroughly  immoral  creature!  " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  be  one  of  a  crowd.  'Tisn't  good  for  the 
self-respect.  And  it  isn't  good  for  Theo  —  Oh,  I've  no  illu- 
sions about  my  young  man.  ...  It  amounts  to  this  —  I'm 
fed  up  with  the  type  of  woman  who  can't  sling  sex  out  of  her 
mind.  The  mind  isn't  the  proper  place  for  sex.  I  want  my 
mind  for  my  work.  Enforced  virginity,  not  chosen,  mind  you, 
but  enforced,  is  unbalancing;  it  hangs  about  and  takes  up  more 
room  than  it  ought  to.  .  .  .  My  work  has  got  to  come  to 
fruition  sooner  or  later  .  .  .  and  all  this  has  got  to  be  cleared 
out  of  the  way,  somehow,  first.  Theo  is  thoroughly  unsuitable, 
he's  younger  than  I  am,  he's  married,  he's  fast  and  horrid  .  .  . 
granted !  —  but  Theo  is  a  factor  that  can't  be  slung  out.  So 
he's  got  to  stay  —  with  as  little  fuss  as  possible.  I  thought 
about  it  all  hard,  and  when  last  night  I'd  decided,  I  packed, 
and  I  came.  Poor  old  Theo  .  .  ."  and  she  chuckled  softly 
as  at  some  memory  of  the  preceding  evening  —  but  her  brows 
were  contracted  with  pain. 

"  Wasn't  he  terrifically  glad,  at  least?  " 

"Oh  —  glad  enough.  But  just  last  night  ...  it  was  — 
awkward.  I  ought  to  have  'phoned  him  beforehand  —  See? 
Antonia,  you're  shrinking  like  bad  material  in  the  wash!  " 

"  Bad  material  perhaps  —  but  not  in  the  wash  ...  at  the 
present  moment!  " 


258  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  Cue  for  a  wince  from  the  fallen  woman !  Frankly,  are  my 
affairs  as  unsavoury  as  all  that?  " 

"  Not  you,  Jill.     Never  you,  but  Theo.     He's  your  demon." 

"  Not  much  demon  about  him  when  he  hung  from  the  left 
foot  on  to  the  right  at  his  front  door  last  night,  and  I  sat 
demurely  on  my  trunk  outside.  ...  If  the  Bacteriological 
Society  could  have  seen  me  —  I'm  lecturing  there  next  week! 
I'm  what  Theo  had  been  waiting  and  longing  for  since  three 
and  a  half  years,  and  coming  just  then  —  for  once  even  he 
wasn't  able  to  carry  it  off.  Zoe  would  have  chucked  the  in- 
cubus through  a  door,  or  into  a  cupboard,  or  under  the  bed,  and 
turned  up  smiling  —  Theo  just  stood  staring  at  me  with  the 
tears  streaming  down  his  face.  .  .  .  My  beloved  little  cad! 
...  So  I  went  home  again,  and  returned  this  morning  — 
Antonia,  you're  not  to  look  like  that!  "  in  a  spasm  of  fury. 
"  Didn't  I  know  he'd  get  rid  of  her  not  ten  minutes  after  I 
left.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  he  said  he  had,"  scornfully. 

Gillian  raged  more.  "  You'd  have  sheered  off  and  never 
looked  at  him  again.  '  For  better,  for  worse '  .  ,  .  Without 
the  marriage  service  read  over  me,  I  can  keep  to  it  as  well  as 
any  of  you.  It's  Theo  as  he  is  —  not  Theo  transformed  by 
Maskelyne  and  Devant  into  a  young  bride's  dream.  We  shall 
live  together  quite  openly;  of  course,  without  any  blaze  of 
trimipets  —  but  concealment  means  a  flurry  again,  and  a  fur- 
tive askew-over-your-shoulder  look  that  I  don't  approve  of. 
Thank  goodness,  my  private  life,  as  I  choose  to  hack  it  out, 
can't  interfere  with  my  especial  career.  If  I'd  been  a  doctor, 
as  I  intended " 

"  Then  you  would  have  had  to  give  up  Theo." 

"  I've  just  spent  twenty  minutes  patiently  explaining  —  I 
s'pose  you  weren't  listening  —  that  if  I  gave  up  Theo,  he'd  take 
up  far  too  much  of  my  time  and  thought  and  vitality  and 
saneness.  To  live  with  him  is  the  only  way  of  getting  rid  of 
him  —  mentally." 

"  It's  such  a  twisted,  new-fashioned  way  of  arguing." 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  259 

"New-fashioned?  because  I  want  my  man  in  my  home — " 
for  an  instant  Gillian  was  wrapped  in  swift  strong  beauty. 

"And  — my  child,  too?" 

"No,"  softly.  "Not  that.  One  is  just  decent  enough,  I 
hope,  to  consider  the  possible  preference  of  the  child  to  remain 
unborn  —  Hullo,  Theo!  "  as  that  gentleman  stood  on  the 
threshold  of  a  room  demoralized  by  Gillian's  advent  to  an 
imitation  of  a  charity  bazaar  after  three  days'  vending. 

"  We  have  all  heard  of  the  magic  womanly  touch  which 
brings  divine  order  into  a  bachelor's  dreary  untidy  chambers," 
he  pattered  impudently,  "  But  the  reality  is  beyond  all  ex- 
pectation. For  pity's  sake,  Gillian,  let  us  go  to  a  hotel  for  the 
rest  of  our  lives.  What  have  you  done  with  my  poor  Sil- 
vester?" 

"Your  valet,  adoring  me  with  every  breath  he  draws,  has 
gone  out  to  pick  some  wild  flowers  for  me  to  arrange  on  our 
dinner  table.  .  .  .  You  shall  have  your  Patmore  angel-in-the- 
house  all  right!     Going,  Antonia?  " 

"  Miss  Verity  is  hating  me  too  much  for  perfect  comfort,** 
murmured  Pandos  with  hiunorous  resignation. 

She  flashed  him  back  look  for  look,  and  went  out. 

.  .  .  Then  the  man  crossed  the  room  and  knelt  beside  the 
packing-case  and  thrust  his  head  in  Gillian's  lap  ...  his  dark 
sloe  eyes  worshipped  her ;  his  nerves,  of  matted  vibrating  wires, 
were  lulled  to  perfect  rest  —  perfect  content.  ...  No  strain 
between  these  two,  of  pretence  or  concealment  or  fear  —  Gillian 
bsd  taken  him  for  what  he  was. 


T 


CHAPTER   III 


''"pF  it  gets  any  hotter,  I  shall  be  found  melted  down  in  one 
of  my  own  crucibles,"  Gillian  wailed,  to  the  accidental 
party  of  Deb,  Nell  and  Antonia,  who  had  flopped  in  to 
see  her  after  a  succession  of  stifling  days  at  the  latter  end  of 
July. 

Antonia  was  temporarily  freed  from  service  by  an  attack  of 
malaria  on  the  part  of  her  General.  And  Deb  explained  that 
for  a  couple  of  weeks  Nell  was  working  as  her  fag  at  the  sta- 
tion canteen  whence  they  had  just  come. 

"  Winifred,  I  wish  you'd  try  for  all  our  sakes  to  get  a  little 
thinner;  the  mere  sight  of  you  in  weather  like  this  is  trying  — 
especially  since  you  spell  your  name  with  such  a  lot  of  extra 
letters." 

"  Why,  what  diff"erence  can  that  make?  "  from  Winnie,  quite 
happy  on  the  divan. 

Gillian  demanded  sympathy  from  the  company:  "  It's  that 
Camellia  woman  puts  morbid  ideas  into  her  head.  She's  told 
her  that  Winifred  is  a  degeneration  of  a  beautiful  old  Saxon 
name,  and  we're  gradually  Saxonizing  it  back  again  to  its 
original  condition.     We  spell  it  Wynnefrwdde  now." 

"  It's  unrecognizable,"  Deb  laughed.  "  I'll  take  to  the  divan 
on  the  strength  of  it.  .  .  .  I'm  exhausted  —  we  had  an  awful 
hustle  up  at  the  canteen."  She  carelessly  rolled  the  astonished 
Winifred  on  to  the  floor,  and  took  her  place  among  Theo's 
treasured  purple  and  peacock  cushions  — "  Don't  you  know, 
Winnie,  that  if  we  were  in  Germany,  you,  as  an  unimportant 
spinster,  would  have  no  right  at  all  to  the  sofa,  which  is  strictly 
reserved  for  the  matron?  " 

"  Well,  but  you're  not  married  either,"  the  victim  of  the 

260 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  261 

evacuation  argued  slowly.  "  We  none  of  us  are  except  Gillian, 
and  she  isn't  really." 

Gillian  twinkled  across  at  Deb:  "Well,  how  would  the 
Germans  cope  with  the  problem  of  somebody  who  isn't  married 
really?     Would  they  give  me  the  sofa?  " 

"They'd  give  you  the  boot;  and  me  too.  There  are  no 
fine  semi-shades  abroad.  A  girl  is  good  till  she  is  slightly 
bad,  and  then  she's  accepted  as  completely  bad  and  damned 
everlastingly.  Here,  a  girl  can  be  badder  and  badder,  if  she 
doesn't  break  the  last  rule  of  all  —  and  then  be  accepted  as 
completely  good  again  at  any  time  she  wants  to  —  like  Manon. 
She's  engaged  to  Dolph  Carew,  you  know.  He's  been  left  pots 
of  money  by  his  uncle.  .  .  ." 

Antonia  said  contemptuously:  "Manon  is  the  epitome  of 
the  saying;  'If  you  can't  be  good,  be  careful!  '  She's  been 
careful  and  she's  got  her  reward.  ..." 

"And  she's  enjoyed  her  nineteen  years  into  the  bargain. 
But  maidenhood  has  a  market  value,  and  Manon  has  known 
that  from  the  cradle.  Not  from  La  llorraine;  she's  no  ready 
reckoner  —  much  too  generous." 

Gillian  asked:  "  Carew  has  been  married  before,  hasn't  he? 
What  was  his  first  wife  like?  " 

And  Antonia  and  Deb  exchanged  a  long  glance.  Then  the 
latter  spoke  softly.  "  Jenny  was  good  —  but  not  careful.  .  .  . 
I've  been  thinking  about  her  rather  a  lot,  lately.  .  .  ." 

"  She  was  too  good  by  a  thousand  miles  to  be  Manon's 
predecessor,"  murmured  Antonia. 

Gillian,  suddenly  standing  up,  flung  away  her  jersey,  reveal- 
ing only  a  camisole  beneath.  Then  she  unfastened  the  safety- 
pin  that  clipped  her  skirt  together.  "  That's  better.  I  believe 
scraggy  people  feel  the  heat  more  than  fat  ones  —  I  do  really. 
It  seems  to  get  so  quickly  at  our  bones  and  grill  them.  Which 
is  hotter,  sizzled  flesh  or  grilled  bones?  Winnie,  I  appeal  to 
you?  " 

"  I  was  just  wondering.  .  .  ."  Winnie  began,  as  usual  ten 
minutes  behind  in  the  conversation  — "  what  Deb  meant 
by " 


262  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

A  violent  peal  at  the  bell  stopped  her. 

"  I  can't  be  bothered  to  dress  all  over  again  for  that.  An- 
swer it,  Deb!  " 

"  Let  me,"  pleaded  Nell.  She  had  been  lumped  on  the  floor, 
somewhere  near  Gillian's  feet,  gazing  steadily  upwards  at  that 
young  woman's  face.  Now,  in  an  agony  lest  some  one  not 
herself  should  have  this  chance  of  doing  service  to  her  goddess, 
she  scrambled  up,  threw  a  look  of  fierce  dark  reproach  in  Deb's 
direction,  and  rushed  to  the  front  door,  colliding  with  Sil- 
vester's dignified  progress  through  the  hall. 

"  Oh "  they  heard  Nell's  affrighted  gasp,  "  do  forgive 

me  —  I  —  I  —  didn't  know !  " 

"  Lord,"  whispered  Gillian  — "  I  forgot  we  have  a  staff.  I'm 
always  forgetting.  Poor  Nell,  this  is  enough  to  put  her  out  of 
gear  for  a  fortnight " 

"  It  doesn't  matter  at  all,  Miss,"  graciously  from  the  valet. 

"  Not  a  bit  —  I  mean  thanks  awfully,"  Nell's  assent  came  in 
a  gasping  torrent.  Then  she  darted  back  into  the  room,  back 
to  her  place  on  the  rug,  and  sat  glowering.  Nobody  dared 
speak  .  .  . 

II 

It  had  been  several  months  before  Nell  would  consent  at  all 
to  meet  the  illustrious  Gillian  Sherwood :  "  She  won't  want  to 
meet  me  —  I'm  too  stupid  —  I  shall  hate  her  —  I  hate  people 
who  ask  me  questions.  .  .  ." 

"But  why  sl.ould  she  ask  you  questions,  for  goodness' 
sake?  "  Deb  had  retorted,  exasperated.  "  She's  not  a  County 
Council  examiner." 

"  She  will,  I  know  she  will.  She  knows  all  sorts  of  brilliant 
people  and  she  discovers  diseases  for  the  papers,  so  she  can't 
want  me  so  dreadfully  badly." 

"  But  people  needn't  want  each  other  dreadfully  badly  to 
just  meet  in  the  ordinary  way." 

"  I  hate  meeting  any  one  in  the  ordinary  way,"  perversely. 
And  Antonia,  who  was  present,  had  laughed,  and  told  Deb 
to  leave  the  shy  baby  alone.     So  that  it  was  a  shock  of  astonish- 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  263 

ment  to  Antonia  when  Gillian,  after  a  recent  accidental  en- 
counter, was  straightway  enthroned  as  Nell's  deity.  .  .  . 

"  She's  a  sweet  kid,  but  she  wrings  one  dry,"  was  the  deity's 
confidential  version  to  Deb.  "  She  writes  to  me  every  day, 
long  unpunctuated  letters  all  about  whether  certain  people 
make  you  feel  certain  feelings,  and  other  feelings  make  you  see 
certain  colours,  and  certain  people  make  you  see  red.  .  .  . 
And  then  she  comes  to  see  me,  and  says  ,'  I  didn't  want  to  come 
really  —  You  didn't  want  me,  did  you?  '  And  I  have  to  be 
hectic " 

"And  she  says:  *Yes,  but  you  don't  say  that  as  if  it  was 
real,' "  Deb  guessed. 

"  Oh,  Deb,  what  shall  I  do  with  her?  One  can  almost  love 
the  child  and  one  wouldn't  hurt  her  for  worlds,  but  we  sit  in 
long  heavy  muffled  impenetrable  silences  like  slow  sinking  into 
a  feather  bed  .  .  .  and  then  she  shoots  out  at  me  '  You're 
different  today  somehow,  aren't  you?  '  And  I  guiltily  try  to 
be  the  same,  but  I  don't  know  what  to  be  the  same  as.  And 
I  get  a  swift  brown  look  and:  '  What  are  you  thinking  of?  ' 
—  When  ten  to  one  I'm  not  thinking  of  anything  worth  while  — 
well,  I  mean  nothing  she'd  like  me  to  be  thinking  of.  So  I 
say,  '  One  can't  always  tell  one's  thoughts  and  feelings,  can 
one?  '  *  No  —  but  one  would  like  to,  wouldn't  one?  At 
least  I  suppose  mine  aren't  up  to  much.  .  .  .  But  I  won- 
der  '" 

"  And  you  say  '  What?  '  and  she  says  '  Nothing  ' —  and  then 
it  begins  all  over  again.  I'm  sorry,  Jill;  I  let  you  in  for 
this." 

"  Don't  blame  yourself.  She  saps  my  strength  rather,  but 
I'm  fond  of  young  Nell,  and  she's  lovely  to  look  at  —  as  Tim- 
othy Fawcett  seems  to  have  found  out." 

"They  never  get  any  forrarder  though,  do  they?  " 

"Bless  him  —  and  bless  them  both.  They  can  afford  to 
waste  three  or  four  years  in  being  shy.     Theo  and  I  did." 

Deb  laughed  outright  at  the  comparison  of  the  two  wooings. 
,  .  .  "I  wonder " 

'*Wh3t?" 


264  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"Nothing!" 

"You're  as  bad  as  Nell!" 

But  Deb  was  wondering  what  effect  Gillian's  pioneer  bold- 
ness might  have  on  the  psychology  of  her  disciple. 

Ill 

Nell  sat  glowering  .  .  .  and  the  other  three  girls  were  sym- 
pathetically silent,  listening  the  while  to  Zoe's  voice  hailing 
Silvester  as  "  Bob  "  and  eagerly  enlightening  him  as  to  the 
adventures  and  whereabouts  of  a  certain  "  Guiseppi "  who  was 
evidently  an  intimate  acquaintance  of  a  mutual  past.  .  .  . 

"  She's  the  Socialist  in  sex  par  excellence,"  murmured  Gil- 
lian, "  a  reproof  to  all  us  snobs.  .  .  ."  And  then  Zoe  bubbled 
into  the  room. 

"  Gillian,  isn't  it  too  funny  for  words,  I  used  to  know  your 
man  quite  well  —  at  least  I  suppose  he's  your  husband's  man  — 
at  least  I  suppose  he  isn't  your  husband  —  but  that  isn't  what 
I  came  to  tell  you.  .  .  ." 

"  Anyway,  I  was  aware  of  it  already,"  Gillian  laughed. 

"What  —  about  Pinto?  My  dear,  how  could  you  be  — 
unless,  of  course,  Cliffe  told  Antonia,  and  she  told  you?  You 
know,  Antonia,  I  never  like  to  say  anything  and  I'm  very 
fond  of  Cliffe,  but  I  do  think  he  talks  too  much.  .  .  .  You 
remember  that  evening  when  Pinto  went  mad  in  my  flat  last 
year?  " 

"Will  I  ever  forget  it?  and  will  your  brother  ever  forget  it, 
Deb;  and  will  Captain  Braithwaite  and  Mr.  Sam  Wright  and 
the  little  Belgian  corporal  ever  forget  it?  Oh,  and  the  maca- 
roni merchant  from  round  the  corner  —  he  had  most  cause  to 
remember  it,  hadn't  he?  Did  he  ever  get  damages,  by  the 
way?  " 

"Well,  you  can  say  what  you  like,  Antonia,  but  though  I 
was  very  angry  with  Pinto  for  the  moment,  I  do  honestly 
think  he  was  perfectly  right  —  in  his  own  way.  And  I  must 
say,  I  do  like  a  man  to  assert  himself.  I  mean,  it's  a  sort  of 
test,  isn't  it,  Gillian,  how  much  he  really  respects  you,  if  it 
annoys  him  to  find  your  room  full  of  other  men?  especially — : 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  265 

but  that  was  what  I  was  going  to  tell  you."  She  unpinned  the 
veil  from  her  slanting  sailor  hat  and  adjusted  the  belt  of  her 
trim  jacket  .  .  .  pulled  forward  a  kiss-curl  or  two,  dumped 
Quelle  Vie  into  Nell's  lap,  whipped  out  some  lurid  red  lip- 
salve and  delicately  outlined  the  curves  of  her  mouth,  and 
spun  a  provocative  glance  downwards  at  her  flaunted  silk 
ankles,  as  though  they  were  another's,  and  she  coveted  them. 

"Never  mind  all  that,  Zoe  —  Theo  won't  be  in  for  ages. 
Tell  us  your  news  first." 

Zoe  opened  her  eyes.  "  Well,  I  must  say,  Jill,  it's  not  like 
you  to  be  spiteful.  No,  it  isn't,  and  I'm  disappointed.  If 
Deb  had  made  that  remark,  I  wouldn't  have  been.  .  .  ." 

"  Thanks,"  from  a  drowsy  but  grateful  Deb  on  the  divan. 
While  Gillian,  in  whose  wide  frankness  had  lurked  not  a  germ 
of  spite,  gazed  helplessly  at  the  ruffled  little  soubrette;  and 
then,  suddenly  understanding,  apologized. 

Zoe  kissed  her.  "  All  right,  dear.  '  The  mind  knoweth  not 
its  own  cattiness.'     Well,  about  Pinto " 

She  described  at  length  how  a  very  contrite  Pinto  had  yes- 
terday turned  up  at  the  flat,  tendering  his  usual  olive-branch  — 
a  jar  of  olives  —  with  the  explanation  of  the  occasion  when 
he  had  overheard,  in  a  cafe  in  Paris,  two  subalterns  discussing 
his  fiancee  by  name,  over  a  letter  presumably  from  Cliffe,  con- 
taining the  advice  to  think  about  her  no  more,  for  she  was 
being  kept  by  a  man  with  the  face  of  an  orang-outang  and  the 
temper  of  a  Patagonian  savage.  .  .  . 

"  And  I  do  think  it's  the  most  pathetic  thing  I've  ever  heard, 
don't  you,  Antonia?  — that  the  poor  darling  never  recognized 
himself,  but  thought  I  was  being  untrue  to  him  with  another 
man  while  he  was  away.  Yes,  I  really  do  think  it  justifies  his 
annoyance  that  time.  ...  I  like  a  man  to  have  a  spirit  of  his 
own,  whatever  you  may  say.  And  now  he's  at  last  had  it  out 
with  Cliffe,  and  we're  engaged  again,  and  I've  promised  him 
all  sorts  of  things,  I  forget  what " 

"  I'd  try  and  remember,  if  I  were  you.  One  of  them  might 
be  important." 

"  Deb,  you've  got  a  perfectly  horrid  mind.  .  .  .  I've  prom- 


266  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

ised  him,  of  course,  not  to  answer  advertisements  in  the  *  Vie 
Parisienne,'  nor  to  accept  wine  —  little  things  like  that.  And 
I  think  he's  right,  in  a  way,  don't  you?  —  because  one  never 
knows  what  may  happen  —  though  I  do  think  Cliflfe  ought  to 
think  twice  before  he  gossips  about  being  '  kept,'  because  it's 
not  a  nice  thing  to  say  about  one's  friends,  is  it?  I  wonder  if 
I  shall  ever  meet  those  two  subalterns  —  wouldn't  you  say 
they  must  have  seen  me  somehow,  and  been  rather  smitten,  for 
ClifFe  to  write  like  that  and  warn  them  off?  But  it  was  a 
funny  coincidence,  wasn't  it,  that  Pinto  should  just  have  been 
sitting  at  the  same  time  in  the  same  cafe,  so  near  their  table? 
And  I  believe,  though  he  didn't  say  so,  that  one  of  them  was 
that  perfectly  dear  lamb,  Timothy  Fawcett." 

Antonia,  to  spare  Nell's  obvious  confusion,  asked:  "Are 
you  going  to  marry  Pinto  at  last?  " 

"  Good  heavens,  no!  Marry  a  man  with  a  temper  like  that? 
Quelle  vie!  — no,  I  wasn't  talking  to  you,  love!  "  as  the  span- 
iel sat  up  and  barked.  "  But  I'm  used  to  being  engaged  to 
Pinto,  and  one  misses  it  —  besides,  it's  a  sort  of  protection 
now  I'm  at  the  War  OflSce.     My  dears,  just  listen.  .  .  ." 

They  listened  for  about  twenty  minutes.  And  then  Gilliem 
said  she  might  as  well  be  suitably  employed  during  the  enter- 
tainment; and  darted  into  the  adjoining  bedroom,  whence  she 
returned  with  an  enormous  pile  of  snowy  but  ragged  under- 
clothing and  a  cigar-box  full  of  cottons. 

And  then  even  Zoe  was  silent  and  attentive  before  the 
spectacle  of  Gillian  sewing.  She  had  no  scissors  and  no  thim- 
ble, so  she  jabbed  the  needle  on  her  knee  to  prick  it  through  the 
more  resisting  portions  of  material  or  lace,  and  left  a  length 
of  thread  hanging  or  else  pulled  at  it  —  and  pulled  out  the 
previous  ten  minutes'  toil.  She  held  her  needle  poised  over 
an  exquisite  bit  of  embroidery,  like  a  spade  over  a  potato 
allotment  —  and  then  dug  at  it  with  grim  energy.  And  she 
sighed  and  she  swore  and  she  struggled,  and  assaulted  the 
tatters  of  fine  lawn  and  crepe-de-chine,  till  Antonia  was  moved 
to  exclaim :  "  And  these  are  the  fingers  that  are  noted  for  the 
most  delicate  experimental  work  in  the  entire  Institute " 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  267 

Gillian  spread  out  and  ruefully  surveyed  the  ten  pricked  and 
discoloured  victims  of  her  combined  career  as  a  woman  and 
a  professor  of  scientific  research. 

"  One  can't  always  be  getting  fresh  underwear.  It's  such 
a  fag.  These  were  very  expensive  when  I  bought  them;  it's 
not  so  long  ago  —  but  I  can  never  feel  I'm  in  harmony  with 
this  sort  of  work.  It's  got  to  be  done,  though,"  and  she  thrust 
the  eye  of  the  needle  anew  towards  the  thread  poised  in  her 
other  hand. 

Nell  had  been  taught  by  her  mother  to  sew  beautifully,  and 
sat  wishing  bashfully  she  had  the  courage  to  tender  her  gift 
at  Gillian's  shrine.  She  was,  however,  unable  to  articulate 
her  ardent  desire;  and  Winnie,  whose  plain  purport  in  the 
house  was  solely  to  spare  Gillian  the  present  endurances,  sat 
likewise  passively  watching  the  warfare  in  which  the  animate 
seemed  likely  to  be  defeated  by  the  inanimate;  advising  at 
last:  "Try  holding  them  a  different  way,  Jill.  No,  not  the 
needle  —  them." 

"Like  this?  "  Gillian  made  an  awkward  bunch  of  the  ma- 
terial in  her  fist.     "  But  it  feels  all  wrong  now." 

"  Better  give  it  up,  Jill  —  throw  it  over  to  Winnie,  she'll  do 
it  for  you." 

Winifred  disregarded  the  hint.  And  Nell  opened  impulsive 
lips,  made  a  sound  in  her  throat,  and  thickened  again  to 
silence. 

"  I  won't  give  up  " —  putting  in  stitches  that  were  like  a 
giant  straddling  from  one  edge  of  the  rent  to  the  other.  "  It's  a 
nuisance,  but  I've  got  to  learn,"  ferociously  obstinate. 

"  Cleanliness  is  next  to  ungodliness,"  Antonia  discovered 
with  her  aloof  air  of  mingled  amusement  and  disdain. 

"  Oh,  cleanliness  matters  even  in  one's  godly  days.  And 
softness.  But  when  it  comes  to  wheat-coloured  or  pale  lilac 
ribbons  drawn  through,  and  the  cling  of  faint  scent,  and  em- 
broidered butterflies  put  on  over  the  heart, —  well,  I  do  con- 
sider Theo's  extras  take  up  rather  a  lot  of  time."  And  Gillian 
added  with  mournful  honesty:  "  I  never  used  to  mind  a  hole 
or  two!  " 


268  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

Winnie  put  in :  "  It  doesn't  matter  in  places  that  don't 
show.  .  .  ." 

"  You  never  can  be  sure,  though,  can  you,  Winnie?  "  Deb 
teased  her. 

"  Of  course  you  can." 

"Winnie,  are  all  your  flirtations  strictly  spiritual?  " 

"Don't  be  silly.  One  doesn't  flirt  with  men  who  can't 
behave." 

"  Even  the  best  behaved  of  men  are  liable  to  be  carried  away 
by  their  feelings." 

Deb  was  naughtily  poking  up  that  layer  of  suburban  respect- 
ability which  was  spread  just  underneath  Winnie's  ordinary 
girlish  tendency  for  what  she  termed  "  larking  about." 

"  A  nice  girl  can  always  keep  them  in  order,"  complacently. 
"  I'm  sure  I'm  fond  enough  of  a  bit  of  fun,  nobody  can  call  me 
a  prude,  but  I  always  make  a  rule  '  so  far  and  no  further.'  " 

Deb  and  Zoe  joyously  hurled  themselves  on  the  phrase: 
"How  far  is  so  far? — that's  just  it!  define  the  limits  of 
virtue,  Winnie.     How  far  before  they  mayn't  go  any  further?  " 

And  in  spite  of  Winifred's  indignant  dodges  and  subter- 
fuges, they  succeeded  in  pinning  her  down  at  last  to  a  hesitant 
declaration  of  principle.  She  affirmed  that  the  parts  which 
civilized  raiment  left  exposed  were  for  caresses  —  no  harm  in 
that:  the  face,  the  V  of  the  neck,  the  arms  below  the  elbow, 
hands  and  wrists.  .  .  . 

"And  anything  beyond  is  violation  of  neutral  territory?  " 

Winnie  wriggled  ambiguously.  "  Of  course,  as  soon  as  a 
fellow  starts  pulling  you  about,  you  know." 

"Know  what?" 

"  What  he's  after." 

"What  is  he  after?"  Deb's  voice  was  the  perfection  of 
innocent  inquiry. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  You  do  worry.  Deb.  I've  got 
along  all  right  till  now."  Winnie's  eyes  were  very  round  and 
puzzled.  For  the  code  of  her  class  was  not  for  analysis;  a 
jumble  of  puritanism  and  prejudice  and  incurious  sensuality. 
"But  of  course  one  has  to  put  a  stop  to  it  somewhere;  mother 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  269 

wanted  me  to  have  a  good  time,  and  never  bothered  me  much, 
but  she  did  say  that  a  chap,  when  he  marries  a  girl,  likes  to 
feel  that  he's  the  first.  .  .  .  Mother'd  be  shocked  at  you,  Deb,  I 
really  do  believe  you've  let  a  fellow  " —  her  voice  died  away. 
And  Deb  said  quickly,  with  averted  head:  "You  believe  I'd 
let  a  fellow  go  so  far  —  and  further,  is  that  it?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  '  further,' "  Winifred 
retorted,  pestered  into  a  desire  to  get  some  of  her  own  back. 
"  You're  so  close  about  your  love-affairs." 

"Winnie,  there  was  a  time  when  I  was  a  pure  young  girl, 
like  you  are  now  .  .  .  and  then  something  happened  .  .  . 
in  my  life  .  .  .  and  I've  never  been  the  same  since,  Winifred. 
I  wonder  if  you'd  understand  if  I  told  you." 

"  Oh,  do !  "  gasped  Winnie,  her  prudery  delightedly  offering 
itself  to  be  shocked. 

Zoe's  voice  was  heard  in  the  distance  shrilling  a  duet  of 
deathless  memories  with  Silvester  in  the  pantry. 

"  You  couldn't  do  it  if  she  were  in  the  room  —  she  wouldn't 
give  you  the  chance,"  Gillian  said,  letting  her  lingerie  fall  from 
her  lap  in  despair.  "  But  as  it  is.  Deb,  I  officially  invite  you 
to  tell  Winnie  the  Unofficial  Story  of  your  Life  —  it  may  widen 
her  outlook.  .  .  .  We'll  keep  quite  still,  Antonia,  Nell  and  I." 

Deb  began,  hands  clasped  behind  her  head,  eyes  contracted 
as  in  dreamy  contemplation  of  small  figures  specking  a  curly, 
dusty  road: 

"  For  the  moment  I  can  only  remember  John  Thorpe  and  his 
mother's  ear-trumpet,  I  was  wildly  infatuated  with  John 
Thorpe,  so  I  used  to  ingratiate  myself  with  his  mother  through 
her  ear-trumpet.  Not  many  people  in  the  hotel  would  bother 
with  that  ear-trumpet,  but  I  thought  it  was  a  short  cut  to 
Paradise.  .  .  .  Once  I  heard  him  bellowing  to  her  in  the  strict- 
est confidence  that  Ellaline  had  accepted  him  the  night  before. 
And  I  had  to  go  on  ingratiating  myself  down  the  ear-trumpet, 
because  he  and  everybody  would  have  noticed  it  if  I'd  suddenly 
left  off.  One  has  one's  pride.  ...  At  the  end  of  eleven  days 
my  throat  was  as  sore  as  my  soul  ...  so  I  went  to  Germany 
on  a  visit  and  the  war  broke  out.  .  .  . 


270  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  And  that  was  for  me  the  dawn  of  love.  .  .  . 

"  I  can't  keep  to  any  chronological  order,  of  course. 

"  The  next  thing  that  stands  out  is  three  minutes  —  well,  it 
can  hardly  have  been  that.  I'd  gone  to  bed  with  a  headache 
—  not  a  very  bad  one;  and  when  I  heard  Phil's  voice  in  the 
hall  —  he'd  motored  over  with  a  party  —  I  wished  I  hadn't 
pretended  it  was  too  bad  to  stay  up.  I  heard  him  say: 
'  Where's  my  wife?  ' — he  always  called  me  his  wife.  .  .  .  They 
answered  laughing,  '  first  floor,  second  door  on  the  right ' —  the 
thud  of  his  feet  on  the  stairs.  Then  he  was  on  the  bed  and  had 
me  and  the  quilt  and  pillow  all  swept  up  and  smothered 
up  together  in  his  arms.  ...  I  was  simply  dazed  with  his 
kisses  —  and  with  the  hot  tingling  feel  of  his  hands.  He  rushed 
downstairs  again  and  I  heard  him  explaining  lightly  to  the 
others  that  he'd  popped  in  his  head  at  the  door.  He  went 
abroad  a  little  while  after.  .  .  . 

"  And  I  sometimes  think  that  was  for  me  the  dawn  of  love." 

"You  let  him  come  into  your  bedroom?  "  panted  Winnie. 
"You  let  a  strange  fellow  sit  —  on  —  your  bed?  " 

Deb  went  on  as  though  she  had  not  heard. 

"  When  Louis  Halliwell  —  yes,  the  music-hall  song-and-pat- 
ter  star  —  motored  me  to  the  Kingston  Empire  that  night  of 
nights " 

"  The  same  night?  "  from  Winnie,  incredulously. 

"  Six  years  before  —  he  promised  me  I  should  see  life  from 
behind  the  scenes.  He  kept  his  promise.  I  spent  the  evening 
in  his  dressing-room,  watched  him  make  up,  heard  him  chaff 
with  other  '  turns '  who  drifted  in  and  out.  He  drove  me 
round  to  the  digs  of  the  Twin  Acrobats,  after  the  show,  and 
they  filled  up  a  tumbler  with  port,  and  he  told  me  in  a  whisper 
it  was  expected  of  bohemian  palliness  I  should  toss  it  off.  .  .  . 
So  I  was  half  asleep  coming  hdme  in  the  car,  but  I  just  remem- 
ber he  put  my  arm  at  the  back  of  his  waist  and  said  it  helped 
him  drive  if  I  kept  it  there.  So  I  kept  it  there.  On  the 
doorstep  he  put  his  hands  on  my  shoulders  and  said  ringingly: 
"  You're  one  of  us  now.  Deb !  " —  and  kissed  me.  once,  on  the 
middle  of  my  mouth.  .  .  . 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  271 

"  That  kiss  was,  for  me,  the  dawn  of  love." 

Winifred  was  so  congealed  to  a  solid  state  of  astonishment, 
that  when  she  said  "  Not  again?  "  it  sounded  quite  calm. 

"  For  cherry  jam  I'd  do  anything.  That  must  be  my  excuse. 
For  when  Colville  came  back  to  me,  married,  and  said  I'd  been 
his  ideal  on  and  off  for  seven  years,  and  perhaps  his  wife  would 
die,  although  he  had  a  tendency  to  appendicitis,  I  thought  I'd 
better  discourage  him.  If  he  had  died  in  my  arms,  Gillian, 
and  there'd  been  an  inquest,  she  couldn't  have  divorced  him 
any  more,  could  she?  But  she  might  have  got  a  Decree  of 
the  High  Courts  to  haul  in  the  cherry  jam  supposing  he'd 
made  a  will  in  my  favour.  Colville  said :  "  I  paid  4s.  3d.  a 
pound  for  it,  Deb.  I  don't  mind  paying  for  what  I  want 
most.  .  .  .'  He  looked  meaning,  and  I  looked  far-away  and 
said :  *  There's  —  somebody  —  else  —  now.  There  wouldn't 
have  been  if  you'd  come  last  Tuesday.'  He  groaned  and  asked 
me  for  a  glove  —  as  if  one  spoils  a  pair  these  days!  So  I  laid 
my  cheek  for  a  brief -fleeting-space-of -time  against  the  back  of 
his  hand,  instead.  It  did  just  as  well  —  but  I  do  think  he 
might  have  sent  me  a  pot  of  the  jam.  But  he  said  he  couldn't 
get  any  out  of  the  cellar  without  her  seeing,  even  in  a 
shrimping-net.  He  said  he  had  thirty-seven  pounds  of  it  in 
the  cellar. 

"  And  that  was,  for  me,  the  dawn  of  love.  .  .  ." 

Deb  sighed. 

"  Pass  over  Padraic,  the  Sorrowful  Celt,  who  used  to  keen 
and  croon  and  lilt  and  lament  rhythmically  over  the  misery 
which  would  surely  be  my  lot,  till  I  felt  like  my  own  corpse 
privileged  to  attend  my  own  wake.  He  would  tell  me  long 
melancholy  Irish  stories  about  his  long  melancholy  Irish 
friends,  and  they  all  sounded  to  me  the  same  friend,"  Deb's 
voice  rose  and  fell  with  the  cadences  of  waves  on  the  shore  — 
"till  at  the  very  last,  did  I  not  hear  myself  fading  to  un- 
reality as  a  legend  of  Eire,  long  and  melancholy,  re-told  by 
him  in  the  future  to  other  friends,  who  would  also  become 
legends,  who  would  all  become  the  same  harrowing,  hopeless 
legend.  ... 


272  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  '  But,'  he  said  — *  if  I  could  only  look  up  and  look  across 

the  room,  Rosaleen '  " 

"  Who  was  Rosaleen  ?  " 

"  Me,"  briefly.  " '  As  I  sit  mourning  o'  nights  solitary  at 
my  window  —  if  I  could  only  look  up  and  see  yourself  in  the 
doorway,  grave  as  Mary  among  the  lilies  —  in  your  simple 
white  shift,  Rosaleen.  .  .  .'" 

"  What's  a  shift?  "  Winnie  was  galvanized  anew  by  curi- 
osity. 

"An  animal  only  to  be  found  in  Ireland.  The  skin  of  the 
shift  is  used  for  coats.  .  .  ." 

"  But  why  did  he  want  you  to  come  to  his  room  in  a  white 
fur  coat?  "  completely  mystified. 

"  Men  do,"  Deb  explained  lightly.  "  There  was  Monna 
Vanna,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

"And  you  went?  Well,  you  are!  What  did  he  do?  "  her 
appetite  was  growing  by  what  Deb  gave  it  to  feed  upon. 

Scornful  of  her  expectation,  and  without  removing  her  eyes 
from  that  visionary  road  specked  by  the  little  black  figures  of 
men,  Deb  answered  her:  "He  smiled  mournfully,  without 
moving  from  where  he  sat  solitary  at  his  window,  and  mur- 
mured :     '  This  does  not  make  a  man  feel  good,  Rosaleen ' 

Perhaps  those  words  were,  for  me,  the  dawn  of  love.  Per- 
haps—  who  knows.  .  .  ." 

"  But  what  happened?  "  goggled  Winnie. 
"  The  landlord  came  in  with  the  watering-pot,"  Deb  snubbed 
her,  brutally.     "  And  we  all  played  French  rounders  together." 
"  Memoirs  of  a  Courtesan,  by  Lewis  Carroll.     Deb,  I  don't 
think  Winnie  can  stand  many  more  dawns." 

"  Olaf  was  romantic.  Olaf  was  fair  and  blue-eyed  and  white 
of  skin,  and  just  twenty;  and  he  came  from  the  northern  for- 
ests of  Sweden.  Nothing  was  too  stock  sentimental  for  him. 
.  .  .  When  I  set  out  to  gather  roses  in  a  basket  from  my  gar- 
den before  breakfast,  he  followed  me  about  saying  how  beauti- 
ful it  was  to  see  me  gather  roses  in  a  basket  from  my  garden 
before  breakfast.  ...  He  dreamt  of  a  day  when  he  should  be 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  273 

standing  in  the  doorway  of  his  hut  among  the  snow  carelessly 
rubbing  up  his  ski  and  shielding  his  eyes  from  the  Aurora  Bor- 
ealis,  and  I,  a  weary  little  dark-haired  princess  dressed  all  in 
white " 

"  That  shift  might  come  in  useful  again." 

" — Would  come  plodding  towards  him  through  the  storm 
like  —  like  a  weary  little  dark-haired  princess.  Then  I  told 
him  what  I  really  looked  like  in  really  cold  weather.  .  .  .  And 
so  his  dawn  of  love  was  shattered  in  the  bud " 

Antonia  groaned  at  the  metaphor.  And  Deb,  who  was  get- 
ting tired,  even  of  the  expression  in  Winifred's  eyes,  grew  even 
briefer  and  more  inconsequent  in  her  memoirs. 

"  Tremayne  said  quickly :  '  You  can  trust  me.  Deb  —  You 
needn't  be  afraid.  .  .  .'  And  then  looked  like  a  sulky  steam- 
roller when  I  cried  back,  'I'm  not  afraid  .  .  .  I'm  hurt!  ' — 
And  I  told  him  he  ought  to  take  a  few  lessons  in  comparative 
anatomy  —  and  then  he  sulked  again.  What  is  comparative 
anatomy,  Jill?  Would  it  mean  comparing  one  girl  with  an- 
other, in  his  case?  Anyhow  he's  not  as  deft  as  that  dear  old 
coachman  who  was  sixty-four  and  wanted  me  to  come  out  with 
him  to  Canada  and  make  a  fresh  start  with  him  there.  But  he'd 
always  driven  the  Brighton  coaches,  so  I  was  sure  he'd  feel 
the  change  and  I  wouldn't  be  able  to  make  up  to  him  for  it. 
.  .  .  He  was  just  a  year  younger  than  Grandfather  Mackenzie, 
whom  I'd  always  snuggled  up  to  and  curled  my  little  hand  con- 
fidingly in  his  big  shaggy  paw.  That  was  before  I  learnt  that 
sixty-four  was  no  age  at  all,  though  his  wife  had  looked  at  me 
queerly  once  or  twice  .  .  .  and  when  I  met  Etienne  Dalison  at 
their  garden-party,  and  grandfather  said :  '  Is  he  your  fairy 
prince?  '  I  laughed  saucily  up  at  his  whiskers:  'Why  not?  ' 
*  Because  I  want  you  all  to  myself^  and  jumped  at  me  —  Lord! 
how  I  ran! 

"  Etienne  Dalison  was  the  velvet  hand  inside  the  iron  glove  — 
and  he  never  forgot  it.  *  Certainly  you  may  go,'  with  a  sort 
of  deadly  quiet.  That  was  in  his  house  at  midnight  —  or  it 
might  have  been  a  quarter  to  eleven.     '  Is  it  likely  I  would 


274  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

detain  you?  '  And  courteously  and  quietly  he  helped  me  on 
with  my  cloak  the  instant  I  requested  it.  That  was  his  quiet 
courtesy.  .  .  . 

"  And  he  opened  the  door  for  me,  and  quietly  stood  aside  to 
let  me  pass,  saying  quietly :  *  You  will  telephone  when  you  are 
ready.'     He  knew  I  would. 

"And  I  didn't. 

*'  He  did,  though.  He  rang  up  twice,  just  to  make  sure  that 
I  understood  his  silence  was  a  tense  controlled  silence,  the 
silence  of  quiet  strength  ...  it  would  have  been  too  terrible 
for  words  if  I  had  thought  it  just  ordinary  silence! 

"But  he  had  an  awfully  voluptuous  house;  aesthetic  and 
luxurious  and  barbaric  —  you  know  the  style  —  all  mosaics 
and  art  treasures  and  rose-leaves  floating  in  the  blood-red 
finger-bowls,  and  silken  hangings  and  richly  crocheted  antima- 
cassars, and  Moorish  fretwork  and  poker-work  .  .  .  oh,  I 
forget  what  else.  An  invisible  flutist  or  a  lutist  during  meals 
to  whip  up  your  senses  like  cream  .  .  .  and  an  inner  apart- 
ment with  Louis  the  sixteenth's  own  bed  standing  encanopied 
in  gold  on  an  ivory  platform,  and  an  expensive  little  negligee 
thrown  lightly  for  your  use  across  the  towel-horse,  in  case  love 
dawns " 

Gillian  sprang  up  abruptly  from  her  chair,  kicked  away  the 
surrounding  billows  of  underwear,  and  walked  firmly  across 
to  the  couch;  stood  looking  down  with  an  unusual  air  of  stern- 
ness: 

"  Deborah,  I  don't  know  if  Winifred  is  shocked  or  not. 
The  point  is,  /  am.  Your  revelations  have  ceased  to  be  funny 
—  they're  merely  pitiful.  I  take  it,  by  the  way,  that  they're 
mostly  true?  " 

"  I'm  not  a  novelist,"  responded  Deb,  shifting  rather  uneasily 
imder  Gillian  Sherwood's  censure.  "What's  up,  Jill?  Do 
you  imagine  I've  sinned  with  all  these  heroes  in  turn?  " 

"No,  I  don't.  That's  just  it.  All  this  dabbling  — it  isn't 
worth  while.  You  know  much  too  much  —  you  know  every- 
thing. You've  got  a  rotten  name  —  as  bad  as  mine.  And 
nothing  to  show  for  it.    You're  smothered  with  dust  from  the 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  275 

arena  —  but  you  never  ride.  Deb,  Deb,  a  little  honest  sin,  for 
Heaven's  sake!     I'm  not  keen  on  this  demi-game!  " 

"  A  little  honest  sin  —  or  a  little  honest  chastity "     An- 

tonia  took  up  her  stand  by  Gillian's  side,  and  put  one  arm  about 
her  shoulders.  .  .  . 

"  Two  of  you !  "  Deb  raised  herself  on  one  elbow  and  pre- 
pared for  battle;  "  les  extremes  se  touchent!  " 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?  "  laboriously  from  Winifred. 

"  Look  next  time  there's  a  fried  whiting  on  your  plate.  Yes, 
—  two  of  us,  Deb  —  we've  been  meaning  to  pitch  into  you  for 
some  time,  Antonia  and  L  What  are  you  doing  with  Blair 
Stevenson?  " 

"  What's  Blair  Stevenson  doing  with  you?  "  Antonia 
amended. 

Their  victim  protested.  "  I  could  tell  you  better  if  you 
wouldn't  both  hover  over  me  in  that  menacing  way.  Do, 
please,  go  back  to  your  seats.     Pair  of  bullies!  " 

They  humoured  her  in  that,  but  Deb  saw  there  was  no  escape 
from  their  quiet  persistence  of  enquiry. 

"  Did  I  tell  you  about  a  man  in  the  train "  she  began. 

"  We  were  asking  you  about  Blair  Stevenson,  Deb." 

"  Yes,  but  the  man  in  the  train  bears  on  the  question  —  he 
does,  honestly.  And  I'm  sure  Winnie  would  like  to  hear  about 
him  —  it  raises  an  interesting  point  of  etiquette.  .  .  .  Well, 
once  upon  a  time,"  in  a  great  hurry,  for  she  saw  that  Antonia 
and  Gillian  would  immediately  blockade  any  gap  she  exposed 
to  them  — "  I  was  travelling,  and  there  were  lots  of  people  in 
the  carriage,  and  one  quite  nice-looking  man,  and  presently  all 
the  other  people  got  out,  and  we  both  had  a  sort  of  feeling  of 
release  ...  at  least,  I  had,  and  I  knew  he  had  too.  He  asked 
if  I  minded  whether  he  smoked,  and  I  said  I  didn't  a  bit,  so  he 
offered  me  a  cigarette,  and  I  took  it  and  thanked  him  nicely. 
Well,  it  would  have  been  so  ridiculous  to  have  glared  at  him 
and  been  porcupiny  all  over,  and  to  have  sat  there  consciously 
and  conspicuously  hugging  my  virtue  as  though  I  suspected 
from  the  very  first  moment  that  he  had  designs  upon  it.  I 
made  some  remark  about  having  to  hurry  with  the  cigarette 


276  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

as  I  got  out  at  the  next  station  — '  Oh,  then  we  haven't  got  very 
much  time,  have  we?  '  " 

Deb  broke  off.  Her  hands  were  hotly  clenched,  and  her 
eyes  a  sombre,  crepuscular  blue.  .  .  . 

"  Jill  —  I  fought  for  it  like  a  —  a  —  devil-cat,  for  what  I  had 
—  God  knows  why  —  but  I  had  guarded  it  by  flight  and  by  cun- 
ning and  by  instinct,  for  years  and  years  —  since  the  very  be- 
ginning. .  .  .  And  now  this  perfectly  casual  stranger  takes  it 
for  granted  it  was  his  for  the  asking.  I  was  up  against  it  — 
and  I  fought  —  so  that  he  was  astonished  —  let  me  go.  I 
walked  to  the  other  end  of  the  carriage  and  sat  there,  looking 
out.  Presently  he  said  in  a  different  way  altogether  —  not 
ashamed  of  himself  and  perfectly  cool,  but  different:  '  You 
can  come  back  to  your  seat  opposite  me.  It's  all  right,'  and  I 
came  back  and  said  slowly:  'Not  exactly  playing  the  game, 
was  it?  '  You  see,  he  was  sure  to  have  been  a  public-school 
boy,  and  if  he  had  winced,  I'd  have  gone  on  to  say  something 
about  how  would  he  like  it  if  his  sister.  .  .  ." 

"  Deb  —  is  nothing  sacred  to  you?  " 

"That's  what  /  was  going  to  ask  him.  But  he  proved  a 
fairly  unusual  type.  He  speculated  a  moment,  and  then  shook 
his  head,  smiling:  'Yes  —  but  you  shouldn't  have  taken  the 
cigarette.  That's  an  accepted  cue,  you  know  —  or  if  you 
didn't  know,  you  ought  to  have.'  It  struck  me  for  the  very  first 
time  that  there  is  something  in  it  when  our  mothers  and  aunts 
warn  us  not  to  let  unknown  young  men  talk  to  us." 

"  Yes,  but  they  ought  to  tell  us  why  and  they  never  do,"  in 
one  long  breath  from  Nell,  whom  the  other  girls  had  forgot- 
ten was  present. 

"  Our  aunts  and  mothers,  most  of  them,  have  Weldon's- 
Paper-Pattern  still  in  their  systems,  however  tolerant  and  lax 
they  may  appear  on  the  surface." 

"  Then  no  wonder  we  get  into  messes,  scrabbling  about  for 
wisdom.  Our  aunts  and  mothers  weren't  allowed  to  scrabble 
by  their  aunts  and  mothers.  .  .  ,  And  our  children  won't  need 
to  scrabble," 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  277 

"  Our  children,"  murmured  Jill,  and  her  hand  touched  Nell's 
hair  regretfully.  .  .  .  Nell  was  such  a  bahy  still! 

"  We're  at  the  transition  period  —  do  you  remember  that 
sketch  I  did  of  you,  Deb?  And  the  transition  period  has  to 
pay,  always." 

"  Then  is  there  a  male  of  the  transition  period  —  to  match 
the  girl?  or  are  we  transitting  alone?  " 

"  Same  old  male  —  the  one  I  met  in  the  train.  And  ex- 
periment clashed  with  habit.  That's  what  I've  been  trying 
to  tell  about." 

Winnie  roused  herself  to  make  contribution  to  the  chorus: 
"  It  was  awful  of  you  to  have  gone  on  letting  him  talk  to  you 
after  he  had  insulted  you." 

"  Why  ?  I  was  curious  what  he  had  done  it  for.  It  can't 
have  been  passion,  romance  —  not  even  the  dawn  of  love,  Win- 
nie —  for  any  stray  girl  in  a  railway  carriage.  I  had  just 
wanted  to  be  friendly.  And  I  was  frightened  out  of  being 
friendly,  by  .  .  .  well,  the  male  habit,  /'d  had  no  desire  to 
spring  upon  him  the  moment  we  were  alone.     I  told  him  so." 

"  You  didn't!     Deb,  you  are!     What  did  he  say?  " 

"  Grinned  and  said :  '  You're  an  odd  kid.  Here's  your  sta- 
tion, isn't  it?  Good-bye  and  good  luck.'  He  helped  me  out, 
and  I  asked  if  I  might  finish  the  cigarette  or  if  under  the  cir- 
cumstances it  was  etiquette  to  throw  it  away?  .  .  .  Oh,  the 
incident  was  nothing;  the  whole  moral  of  it  is,  that  it  wouldn't 
have  happened  to  Antonia,  so  it's  no  good  lecturing  me  accord- 
ing to  the  Antonian  standard.  Or  the  Gillian  standard  either 
—  great  loves  don't  come  to  such  as  me." 

"  Because  you  experiment  in  small  loves,"  Gillian  lit  a 
cigarette  and  planted  both  feet  on  the  mantelpiece,  "  small 
loves  and  small  loaves  and  half  loaves " 

"  Better  than  no  bread." 

"  Wrong  again.  You  must  have  learnt  by  now  that  it's 
either  Heaven  ...  or  always  the  same." 

"Men  always  the  same?  — indeed  they're  not!  "  Zoe  had 
returned  mentally  refreshed  from  pantry  society.     "//  they 


278  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

were  always  the  same,  we  needn't  bother  so  to  keep  on  changing 
them,  need  we?  It's  the  different  ways  of  approach  that  are 
so  perfectly  fascinating;  and  the  different  idea  each  one  has 
of  the  same  identical  you;  and  how  long  each  is  going  to  take, 
and  what  sort  of  places  they  choose,  and  their  pasts,  and  their 
way  of  holding  you  —  I  do  like  to  be  nicely  held,  don't  you, 
Antonia? — Oh  no,  I  forgot,  you  don't!  There  are  dozens 
and  thousands  of  diflferences,  and  each  has  to  be  managed  dif- 
ferently; and  what  encourages  one  kind,  puts  another  right  off 
.  .  .  even  what  they  prefer  to  eat,  and  if  they  like  their  kisses 
hard  or  soft  —  I  say,  doesn't  that  sound  like  eggs?  Oh,  I  do 
think,  I  really  do,  that  variety  is  most  of  the  fun;  and  seeing 
how  they  get  to  the  point.  They  bore  me  when  they're  within 
shouting  distance.  .  .  .  Besides,  I  get  so  specially  interested 
in  what  each  new  man  is  going  to  give  me.  You  would  soon 
get  to  know  that,  if  you  always  kept  to  the  same.  Pinto,  for 
instance  ...  he  gives  me  olives,  and  I  hate  them.  You  don't 
think  me  greedy,  do  you?  I'd  hate  to  be  greedy,  but  I  do 
like  presents!  " 

"  I  believe  you're  the  demi-maid  by  temperament,"  Gillian 
said,  smiling  at  her,  while  she  reflected  that  as  fast  as  that 
greedy  right  hand  of  Zoe  plundered,  the  generous  left  hand  of 
Zoe  gave.  "  Deb  isn't.  And  that's  why  Deb  has  to  be  spoken 
to  seriously  by  her  pals.     We're  waiting  to  hear  about  Blair." 

"  What  about  Blair?  "  Deb  seemed  inclined  to  sulk. 
"Throw  me  a  cig,  Winnie.  And  a  match.  And  the  box  to 
strike  it  on  —  thanks.  What  about  Blair?  He's  the  demi- 
man,  if  you  like,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned.  I  was  wrong  when 
I  said  the  male  of  the  transition  period  didn't  exist.  The 
Male  who  Pursues  has  ceased  to  exist.  Nowadays  he  implies, 
more  or  less  delicately,  that  he  has  no  wish  to  make  you  his 
wife  and  you  needn't  think  it ;  but  being  your  own  mistress  — 
well,  will  you?  And  you  imply  equally  delicately:  '  Yes,  but 
not  yours,  so  you  needn't  think  it!  '  Then  you  both  know 
where  you  are.     The  rest  is  on  debatable  ground." 

Zoe  cried,  appalled  at  Deb's  elasticity  of  speech,  "  Well,  I 
must  say,  Deb,  I  think  you're  horrid.     I  do,  really.     I'm  not 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  279 

a  prig,  but  I  don't  think  you're  a  bit  nice.  I  suppose  I'm  old- 
fashioned.  And  I'm  not  at  all  surprised  at  Winnie.  ,  .  ."  who, 
with  a  crimson  face  at  the  word  "  mistress,"  had  marched  out  of 
the  room. 

"  That  doesn't  matter,"  Gillian  defended  Deb,  with  that  odd 
incongruous  air  of  casual  authority  which  was  unconsciously 
based  on  her  years  of  vital  work  and  clear  thinking  and  swift 
unerring  sense  of  values;  on  a  courageous  judgment  that 
hummed  through  the  air  like  an  arrow,  and  stuck  quivering  in 
the  gold;  on  the  deference  she  received  from  her  equals,  men 
with  good  brains  and  of  good  quality;  men  of  genius,  even, 
who  had  deferred  to  her  in  her  own  line.  "  Winnie  does  quite 
a  good  deal  of  what  one  might  call '  spooning  '  .  .  .  '  adventur- 
ing on  debatable  ground  '  .  .  .  '  half-a-loafing '  .  .  .  whatever 
you  like.  But  it's  just  that  she  can't  bear  —  the  labels.  While 
one  is  vague  about  the  name  of  a  thing,  it's  all  right,  according 
to  Winnie.  She's  not  a  conscious  humbug;  belongs  to  a  type. 
And  she  enjoys  the  half-loaf  —  like  Zoe.  Well,  call  it  her 
quarter-loaf.  The  point  is  —  do  you  enjoy  yours,  Deb?  I 
don't  believe  you  do.  And  if  you  don't,  it's  not  worth  it.  In 
the  case  of  Blair  Stevenson,  for  instance?  " 

Deb  made  a  desperate  attempt  to  shed  all  her  psycho- 
entanglements,  and  be  honest  —  because  it  was  Jill  who  asked. 
And  this,  even  though  she  had  long  ago  discovered  that  the  self 
one  pretends  to  is  much  more  convincing  to  the  hearer,  than 
the  self  nearer  to  reality.     A  detached  attitude  helps  expression. 

"  It  pleases  him  and  it  doesn't  hurt  me,"  she  simimcd  up 
slowly. 

"  And  what's  the  object  of  pleasing  him?  "  Antonia  enquired, 
in  scorn  of  the  masculine  claim. 

"  That  it  doesn't  hurt  me." 

"  It  has  hurt  you.  It  has  hurt  all  of  us  —  through  you." 
Her  lower  lip  quivered;  proudly  she  fastened  it  to  composure 
with  her  teeth. 

"Well?  "  Deb  flung  at  Gillian;  and  thoughtfully  came  the 
answer : 

"  I'm  not  sitting  in  judgment.  Deb.     Whom  am  I,  etc.     Bu 


280  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

it  seems  to  me  the  natural  thing  to  draw  such  pleasure  from 
the  touch  of  a  man,  that  contact  becomes  beautiful  and  there- 
fore true.  Or  else  to  be  so  repelled  by  it  .  .  .  that  you  sit  up 
and  behave.  But  what  possible  reason  you  can  have  to  lie 
there  and  merely  suffer  it  without  joy  or  fulfilment " 

"  It  does  become  annoying  at  times  to  think  he's  having 
so  much  more  fun  than  I,"  flippantly.  She  pushed  her  hands 
impatiently  through  the  hot  thick  masses  of  her  hair.  "  Oh, 
I'm  tired  of  being  a  girl,  anyway.  I'll  cut  my  hair  short  for  a 
start,  and  be  a  boy.     Have  you  got  some  big  scissors,  Jill?  " 

"  Nail-scissors,  curved ;  in  the  shape  of  a  stork." 

"  Don't  be  an  idiot,  Deb  —  your  glorious  mane.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  Deb " 

But  in  spite  of  the  protests  of  Antonia,  Nell  and  Zoe  —  Gil- 
lian sat  silent,  probably  thinking  any  distraction  good  for  Deb's 
soul  at  the  moment  —  she  unpinned  her  hair  and  let  it  fall  in 
a  dense  blue-black  web  over  her  face;  her  voice  came  in 
muffled  jerks  from  the  improvised  tent: 

"  It's  that  once  started  ...  it  seems  so  silly  to  stop.  So 
silly  and  affected.  Anyway,  they  won't  believe  you  —  once 
you've  let  them  start.  And  I  want  to  be  appreciated  just  a 
little  .  .  .  I'm  twenty-five;  and  —  and  —  how  —  how  are  you 
to  know  it's  coming  to  be  the  real  thing  at  last,  unless  you  let 
them  begin?  ...  Or  even  a  bit  of  the  real  thing?  Or  even 
one  single  thrill.  ...  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me 
that  I  never  thrill.  I  —  I'd  go  back  to  be  chaste  and  white  if  I 
could.  But  I've  had  too  much  tolerance,  and  my  moral  sense 
has  got  slack  and  messy.  And  men  know  —  the  sort  of  thing 
you  allow.  It  gets  about:  Blair  knew.  .  .  .  One  might  as 
well  live  up  to  it."  All  this  confession,  while  the  scissors  had 
been  snip-snipping;  an  occasional  soft  swish  of  her  hair  falling 
to  the  carpet  —  disconcerting  sound,  that  made  young  Nell 
suddenly  wince  and  cover  her  ears. 

"  But  you  can  go  on  —  if  you  can't  go  back." 

"  This  from  you,  0  vestal !  "  Deb  shook  back  her  ragged 
curtain,  and  scissors  suspended,  gazed  in  sheer  surprise  at 
Antonia.     "  Or  was  it  Jill  speaking  in  Antonia's  voice?  " 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  281 

"The  whole  way  —  or  no  way.  The  last,  for  me.  But 
you've  proved  that  it's  impossible  for  you,  now.  So  the  whole 
way.     I  despise  —  debatable  ground." 

"  It's  too  late  for  the  whole  way,  too.  Yes,  I'm  quite  logical. 
You  either  rush  headlong  from  chastity  to  wantonness  — 
forgive  me,  Jill,  it's  the  wrong  word,  but  I  can't  think  of 
another  —  or  else  into  matrimony.  Debatable  ground  is  for 
those  who  hesitate.  And  hesitation  makes  the  demi-maid!  " 
She  gripped  a  long  strand  of  hair,  held  it  out  and  slashed  at  it 
savagely. 

"  And  it's  queer,"  she  went  on,  "  but  I've  still  got  the 
inborn  conviction  that  wantonness  gets  the  worst  of  it.  I 
seem  to  see  a  little  woodcut,  like  the  illustration  of  a  very 
familiar  old  book,  of  a  man  forsaking  the  girl  he  has  betrayed, 
to  die  or  drag  on  in  squalor  and  shame  and  bitterness,  while 
he  returns  to  his  wife,  the  sheltered  woman,  the  law-sanctified 
mother  of  his  children.  I  may  be  all  wrong  —  but  that's  how 
it  comes  to  me." 

"  It  comes  to  me  in  exactly  opposite  form,"  Gillian  laughed. 
"  Not  from  personal  motives,  but  from  the  same  sense  as  Deb, 
of  a  familiar  picture.  .  .  .  The  wife  forsaken,  worn  and  weep- 
ing, face  downwards  on  a  sofa,  while  the  man  hurries  away 
to  the  woman  who  is  free,  insolent  and  triumphant.  The 
wanton  scores  —  and  that's  why  I've  always  avoided  being  the 
wife." 

"  The  wife  scores  —  and  that's  why  I've  always  dreaded  be- 
ing the  wanton." 

Gillian  laughed  again.  "  I  don't  mind  if  you  call 
me  a  wanton,  as  long  as  you  don't  call  me  a  pioneer. 
And " 

"  Oh,  Jill,"  cried  Zoe  in  clamorous  distress,  "  I  thought 
you'd  prefer  it,  I  did  really;  or  I  should  never  have  —  but 
whenever  I  found  people  talking  about  you,  I  always  excused 
you  by  saying  you  were  a  Pioneer  of  the  New  Era  of  Woman- 
hood. .  .  ." 

"  God !  .  .  ."  murmured  the  victim  thus  mislabelled. 

"But  aren't  you?     I  mean,  don't  you  believe  that  this  is 


282  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

the  beginning  of  a  sort  of  New  Era  when  we  shall  be  as  free 


as  men 


?  " 


"  I  don't !  "  Antonia  cut  in  clearly.  "  I  hope  it's  rather  the 
beginning  of  a  New  Era  (as  you  call  it)  when  men  shall  be  as 
self-controlled  as  us.  Why  on  earth  should  development 
always  seem  to  be  along  the  lines  of  licence?  Girls  nowadays 
will  run  wild  all  over  the  place  for  a  bit,  just  to  prove  they've 
got  their  money  and  their  independence  and  the  vote  and  a 
special  prerogative  and  a  latitude  and  a  longitude  ...  all 
that.  And  then  they'll  get  a  sense  of  responsibility  and  cool 
down  and  settle  down,  and  ask  for  limitations  —  and  with 
that,  a  new  phase,  and  perhaps  a  finer  one,  will  begin.  Your 
Era  is  nine  times  out  of  ten  only  a  phase.  I  hold  by  the 
law  —  the  old  social  law  of  monogamy.  It  has  made  itself 
out  of  the  instinctive  need  of  it,  and  it  recurs  again  and 
again  down  the  whole  cycle  of  civilization  —  out  of  the  in- 
stinctive need  for  it.  There  have  been  maidens,  wives  and 
harlots  through  all  the  ages  —  surely  there's  no  genuine  need 
to  muddle  them  all  up?  no  need  for  free  love,  except  for  the 
exceptions  from  the  herd  ?  —  and  the  exceptions  can  always 
be  trusted  to  look  out  for  themselves." 

"  But  it  isn't  monogamy  that  Gillian  &  Co.  are  opposing," 
Zoe  contested  —  with  the  air  of  a  wise  little  Bubbles,  sitting  on 
a  footstool,  with  primrose  curls  haloed  in  lamplight  — "  it's 
marriage." 

"  Marriage  is  quite  a  good  institution,  for  those  who  want 
it.  You  arid  Intellectuals  never  see  that  where  two  people 
need  a  symbolic  or  a  religious  or  even  a  civic  recognition  that 
they  belong  together,  they  should  be  allowed  to  have  it." 

"  But  the  million  of  cases  where  it  has  turned  out  badly " 

"Would  have  turned  out  just  as  badly  if  the  couple  had 
been  living  together  in  free  love." 

"  But,  Antonia,  then  they  could  just  have  walked  away 
from  each  other!  " 

"  It's  very  rare  that  it's  a  simultaneous  walk-away.  The 
one  walks  .  .  .  and  the  other  suffers.  And  this  wrench 
would  occur  in  any  case.     The  legal  wrench  is  a  bit  of  a  bother 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  283 

—  and  I  grant  you  that  the  divorce  laws  might  be  reformed  — 
but  the  human  wrench  is  inevitable,  in  spite  of  all  progress 
and  propagandists  and  pioneers!  " 

Antonia  was  in  battle  mood,  and  Gillian  gave  her  battle. 
They  confronted  each  other  not  unlike  a  pair  of  splendid  boys, 
the  one  erect  with  her  back  to  the  peacock  window-curtains, 
hands  clasped  behind  her,  her  head,  a  red-brown  oval,  slewed 
defiantly  upwards;  while  the  other  rested  her  arms  and  chin 
along  the  back  of  a  precariously  tilted  chair,  which  she 
vehemently  bumped  forward  again  to  safety  at  the  allitera- 
tive peroration  of  Antonia's  speech. 

"Propagandists  and  pioneers  —  no!  By  heaven,  you're 
unjust!  — do  you  suppose  we're  out  to  be  as  intolerant  of  the 
Merely  Married,  as  they  have  hitherto  been  of  us?  Look 
here  —  I  loathe  theoretical  talk  —  I  just  claim  a  right  to  do 
what  my  own  circumstances  dictate,  without  being  preached  at 
and  interfered  with.  There's  no  such  thing  as  Gillian  &  Co. — 
if  I  and  my  like  are  accidentally  in  the  van  of  progress,  we 
advance  separately,  each  to  her  own  peril.  And  if  we're  only 
freaks  and  exceptions,  lawbreakers  and  wantons  —  then  again, 
each  to  her  own  peril.  But  what  I  do  resent,  savagely,  is 
that  Theo  and  I  can't  have  a  child,  without  raising  a  stinging 
pestering  swarm  of  minor  considerations  —  servants,  land- 
ladies, schoolmistresses,  tradesmen  —  once  there's  a  family 
there's  got  to  be  a  permanent  home,  and  that  translates  into  all 
this  sordid  beastliness  of  prying  and  inspection,  gossiping  and 
blackmail,  deceiving  and  finding-out,  and  the  intolerant  official- 
dom you're  so  keen  on,  Antonia.  And  I  daresay  the  kid  would 
have  to  pay  too,  somehow,  sometime.  Well  —  we're  not  going 
to  give  all  this  a  chance.  But  I  maintain  that  the  arid  Intel- 
lectuals are  finer,  truer  stuff  than  the  Herd,  because  they  don't 
bother  the  Herd,  and  the  Herd  will  never  stop  bothering  us. 
Never.  They're  bothering  now  because  Theo  has  a  wife  living. 
It  doesn't  matter  to  them  that  I'm  doing  far  better  work  and 
he's  a  far  better  man,  because  we  live  together.  The  mind  of 
the  Herd  can't  stretch  to  individual  demand.  It  can't  be 
tender  or  intuitive  —  it  just  fusses.     So  —  yes  —  call  me  a 


284  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

pioneer  if  you  like;  not  of  any  glucose  Movement  to  link  people 
together  for  a  common  cause  and  so  forth  —  there's  too  much 
of  that  —  but  for  the  right  to  unlink  oneself  and  to  unlink  one's 
thoughts  from  other  people's  thoughts  —  the  right  of  detach- 
ment." 

"  Oh  dear !  "  exclaimed  Zoe.  "  Isn't  it  funny,  how  people 
who  used  to  just  talk,  ever  since  the  war  have  talked  as  though 
they  were  making  speeches?  " 

Antonia  and  Gillian  looked  guiltily  at  one  another.  "  I'm 
afraid  she's  right,"  Antonia  sighed.  "  Sorry,  Zoe.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  it's  perfectly  ridiculous  to  be  discussing  the  sex 
problem  at  all,  since  the  war.  Ancient  cobwebs  which  the 
great  broom  has  still  left  clinging.  .  .  ." 

Again  Gillian  leapt  to  the  assault.  "  The  '  sex  problem,' 
as  you  call  it  —  a  horrid  phrase  which  suggests  pamphlets  and 
tracts  —  has  survived  a  million  wars  and  even  caused  one  or 
two.  So  there's  no  earthly  reason  why  we  shouldn't  be  dis- 
cussing it.  Here  we  sit  in  proof  of  my  statement  —  five  girls 
who  are  all  employed  on  war  work  (good  thing  Winnie's  out 
of  the  room  for  this  reckoning),  who  still  find  some  difficulty 
in  sexually  disposing  of  themselves  —  I  mean,  in  the  abstract. 
If  Deb  and  Nell  weren't  at  the  canteen,  and  Antonia  a  chauf- 
feuse,  and  Zoe  an  affliction  to  the  War  Office,  and  I  in  my  labora- 
tory spying  out  new  diseases  that  resent  bitterly  not  being  al- 
lowed to  keep  themselves  to  themselves;  if  we  were  just  mooch- 
ing and  flirting  and  grumbling,  and  prodding  our  emotions, 
people  might  be  justified  in  saying  we  were  all  in  an  unhealthy 
frame  of  mind  from  lack  of  topical  co-operation.  But  as  it  is, 
the  war  goes  on,  and  sex  goes  on,  quite  self-reliantly.  You 
can't  cancel  one  against  the  other.     It's  false  mathematics." 

"  My  dear  Jill,  you  can't  state  in  that  arbitrary  fashion  that 
war  isn't  going  to  affect  the  sex  problem  —  it's  all  right,  Zoe, 
I'm  not  going  to  speak  for  long;  take  up  the  'Tatler'  in  the 
meanwhile!  — It  will  aff^ect  it  in  every  possible  way:  lack  of 
men;  abnormal  conditions;  economic  liberty  for  girls  hitherto 
dependent " 

"I'm  wrong.     Oh,  I'm  totally  wrong!  .  .  .  Deb,  come  out 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  285 

of  what's  left  of  your  hair  and  save  me!  I  don't  want  to 
hear  about  economic  conditions.  The  off-side  is  yards  shorter 
than  the  other." 

"Wait  one  minute,"  murmured  Deb,  industriously  and 
wholly  absorbed  in  her  labours. 

Antonia  continued,  in  serene  mockery  of  Gillian :  "  And  I, 
for  one,  am  not  in  the  least  difficulty,  thanks,  over  how  to 
dispose  of  myself  sexually  in  the  abstract.  And  I  shouldn't 
imagine  from  external  evidence  that  you  were  either,  Jill. 
Zoe,  are  you  at  all  puzzled  how  to  dispose  of  yourself  sexually 
in  the  abstract?  Henceforth  and  hereafter  there's  always 
Pinto,  isn't  there,  when  the  supply  of  other  friendly  aliens  is 
exhausted?  " 

"  You  may  laugh,"  cried  that  young  person  in  eager  defence 
of  her  continental  tastes  — "  but  it  doesn't  seem  natural  to  me 
to  be  made  love  to  in  English  —  it  doesn't  really!  I  always 
have  to  turn  it  into  French  or  Italian  or  Portuguese  in  my  head, 
because  it  becomes  decent  somehow.  Isn't  it  funny?  but  it's 
quite  true.     I  suppose  it's  a  habit." 

"  Nell  is  a  minor  and  an  adolescent,  and,  like  Jill's  more 
obscure  diseases,  prefers  to  keep  herself  to  herself,"  Antonia 
went  on,  "  so  there's  no  need  to  include  her  in  our  enquiry. 
Winifred  lives  mainly  in  a  state  of  mental  sloth,  and  is  not,  I 
think,  wrestling  very  furiously  with  the  sexual  problem." 

"As  long  as  she's  only  kissed  at  the  extremities,"  Zoe 
threw  in. 

"  Manon  is,  we  hear,  formally  and  decorously  engaged  to 
be  married.  So  there  really  remains  only  Deb,  of  the  whole 
group,  who  might  be  said  to  be  in  difficulties  over  the  disposal 
of  herself  sexually  in  the  abstract.     And  Deb  is  a  goose." 

"  And  Deb  is  a  goose !  "  echoed  Zoe  and  Gillian  in  affirmative 
chorus. 

Deb  gave  a  final  snip,  flung  the  scissors  down,  and  faced  the 
company.     "  How  do  you  like  me?  " 

"  Well,"  remarked  Gillian,  after  they  had  all  stared  in 
solemn  criticism  for  several  minutes,  "  I  hardly  think  the 
shears  have  disposed  of  the  problem.  .  .  ." 


286  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

It  was,  indeed,  a  quaint  enough  perversity  that  Deb's  present 
flying  mop  of  short  black  hair  caused  her  to  look  even  more 
girlish  than  hitherto;  perhaps  it  was  the  pure  beautiful -curve 
of  her  throat,  now  visible  from  every  angle.  Her  little  round 
head  was  the  head  of  a  child-saint;  her  slim  body,  lightly- 
poised  and  undeveloped,  was  pathetic  anomaly  to  eyes  and 
mouth  which  revealed  a  mind  that  had  heard  of  all  sin,  and 
was  blunt  to  all  sin,  and  weary  of  all  sin  .  .  .  victim  of  the 
transition  period. 

"  Don't  you  like  it?  "  disappointed  at  the  silence  of  her 
comrades,  broken  only  by  Gillian's  one  caustic  comment.  "  I 
shall  have  to  get  it  properly  trimmed  and  trained  at  a  hair- 
dresser's, of  course.     But  I  think  it  suits  me,  rather.  .  .  ." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  shorn  femininity?  " 
Gillian  pointed  to  the  showers  of  long  hair  lying  about  the 
carpet.  "  You  can't  leave  it  here,  you  know  —  Theo's  so  aw- 
fully impressionable." 

"My  shorn  femininity,"  said  Deb,  gathering  it  up  in  her 
arms,  "  shall  go  into  a  brown  paper  parcel  and  be  sold  for  the 
benefit  of  the  Red  Cross  — '  And  nothing  in  life  became  it  like 
its  death!'" 

IV 

For  a  space  of  time  parallel  to  this  discussion,  four  men  were 
sitting  in  Blair  Stevenson's  library,  drinking  whisky  and  soda, 
and  lazily  depreciating  the  first-night  play  they  had  just  wit- 
nessed, and  of  which  Theo  Pandos  had  to  supply  a  dramatic 
criticism  for  "  The  Dawn."  He  was  dashing  down  his  copy 
now,  and  occasionally  pleading  with  Cliffe  Kennedy  to  hold 
back  his  comic  reminiscences  about  the  Censorship,  for  just  a 
few  minutes  longer. 

"  Why  they  don't  sack  you !  " 

"  I'm  a  highly  useful  servant  of  the  State,"  ClifFe  rejoined. 
"  And  I've  never  before  had  as  big  a  private  mail  as  I  liked. 
I  used  to  read  my  own  letters  and  my  mother's,  and  my  little 
sister  Bath's;  and  the  letters  of  any  stray  guest  who  happened 
to  be  in  the  house,  and  the  servants'  letters  —  and  even  then 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  287 

I  wasn't  satisfied.  Now  I  can  glut  myself  opening  letters." 
He  told  a  few  more  incredible  and  very  delightful  tales  of  these 
same  letters.  And  then  Pandos  flung  down  the  fountain-pen, 
to  intimate  he  had  finished  a  column  of  the  "  death-by-a- 
thousand-slices,"  for  which  he  had  made  a  name,  took  up 
his  glass  of  whisky  and  soda;  and  the  conversation,  as  was 
usual  directly  he  touched  it,  pivoted  round  to  the  subject  of 
women.  .  .  . 

"  I  don't  understand  girls  nowadays,"  confessed  the  fourth 
of  the  quartette,  who  was  little  Timothy  Fawcett  of  the  Royal 
Flying  Corps.  Having  been  a  whole  year  on  continuous  active 
service  in  France,  he  was  now  stationed  at  Hendon  for  a  few 
months'  respite  of  light  home  duty. 

Timothy  was  rather  a  nice  boy.  He  was  fair  and  shy  and 
solemn,  with  those  soft  cherub  curves  to  his  mouth  that  remind 
one  of  dewy  sleep  and  of  a  mother  fondly  shading  the  candle 
from  the  eyes  of  her  baby  son  in  his  cradle.  And  his  innocent 
appearance  did  not  call  for  the  conventional  corollary  that  it 
masked  the  biggest  dare-devil  in  the  squadron.  His  appearance 
coincided  exactly  with  his  disposition.  Timothy  was  un- 
doubtedly both  shy  and  solemn,  with  wits  that  moved  but 
slowly,  and  nerves  and  courage  as  steady  as  his  steady  ques- 
tioning blue  eyes. 

"  I  don't  understand  women  nowadays,"  he  began.  And 
Blair,  with  whom  he  was  rather  a  favourite,  said  encourag- 
ingly: 

"  Go  on.  Sonny!  " 

Timothy  loosened  his  Sam  Browne,  and  stared  at  his  puttees; 
then,  by  an  inspiration,  emptied  his  glass;  and  thus  fortified, 
was  able  to  continue : 

"What  I  mean  is  —  there  used  to  be  the  girls  you  met  in 
your  own  set,  and  they  went  about  with  your  sisters,  and  there 
was  no  harm  if  you  kissed  'em  on  the  river,  bat  of  course  you 
took  jolly  good  care  what  you  talked  about  to  'em.  Sometimes 
you  married  'em." 

"  Exactly,"  Kennedy  commented.  "  Sometimes  you  married 
'em.    Proceed,  Timothy." 


288  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"And  then  —  there  was  the  other  kind."  Timothy  came  to 
a  full  stop. 

And  the  little  Greek,  his  eyes  vivid  with  mischief,  took  up 
the  sequel  of  events: 

"  And  these  you  kissed  also  .  .  .  and  not  only  on  the  river. 
And  you  told  them  those  droll  stories  that  could  not  be  told 
to  the  girls  you  married  sometimes.  And  they  laughed  with 
flattering  appreciation." 

"  What  I  mean,"  Timothy  began  anew,  with  obstinate  deter- 
mination to  finish  up  the  subject  in  as  few  words  as  possible, 
"  is  that  a  fellow  used  to  be  able  to  tell  the  two  sorts  apart  in 
half  a  jiflF,  and  now  they've  gone  and  got  themselves  so  muddled 
up  .  .  .  you  take  out  one  of  the  first  kind,  thoroughly  nice 
girl  and  all  that  —  and  she  talks  about  —  well  —  dash  it  — 
about  —  about " 

" —  The  second  kind,"  suggested  Stevenson. 

"  And  she  wants  you  to  take  her  to  a  night-club,  and  laughs 
at  you  for  bein'  shocked,  an'  argues  about  it  —  no  end  know- 
ing! And  so  one  takes  the  cue  and  follows  up  —  and  then  half 
times  out  of  ten  she  turns  on  the  freezin'  tap,  and  quite  right 
too,  only  she  ought  to  have  done  it  from  the  beginning.  And 
they've  got  quite  pally,  too,  with  —  well  —  the  other  sort.  It's 
so  rum.  You  meet  'em  with  their  arms  round  each  other's 
waists.  .  .  .  It's  all  a  mix-up  an'  you  never  know  where  you 
are  or  what  you're  safe  to  say,  or  who  knows  who  or  how  much 
you're  let  in  for " 

"  Tim  likes  to  know  where  a  good  woman  ends  and  a  bad 
one  begins  —  that's  the  trouble  in  brief,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  Timothy  answered  his  host.  And  drew  a  long 
breath  .  .  .  waiting  for  enlightenment. 

"  Keep  'em  divided  in  your  own  mind,  Tim,  and  it  will  be 
all  right.  The  shuffle  is  mostly  intellectual,  and  needn't  con- 
cern you.  Youc  nice  girl,  because  she  knows  rather  more  than 
she  used  to,  believes  she  can  compete  with  professionals.  Mais 
ce  Tiest  pas  son  metier  —  and  she'll  discover  that  in  time. 
Meanwhile,  we  know  where  to  find  our  wives  and  where  to  find 
our  mistresses;  and  those  who  wish  to  be  met  on  half-way 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  289 

ground,  let  us  meet  them  on  half-way  ground.  It's  not  for 
us  to  be  pushing  them  back  into  innocence  or  toppling  them 
forward  into  guilt."  Stevenson  lay  back  with  arms  crossed 
behind  his  head,  in  his  wonted  state  of  unruffled  good-humour. 

Kennedy,  greatly  excited,  contested  this  bland  point  of  view: 
"  I  object  to  half-way  ground.  Strongly.  Besides,  it's  a  form 
of  blacklegging.  Give  me  sharp  division  —  sand  and  rock. 
Confound  it,  I  don't  want  my  wife,  when  I  get  her,  to  be  able 
to  chatter  like  a  frank  comrade  about  all  the  ins  and  outs  of 
my  squalid  existence  before  I  met  her.  I  hate  frank  comrades. 
They're  too  —  too  reasonable  altogether.  I  hate  an  intellectual 
mate,  and  a  pure  white  friend  of  my  little  sister  Beth,  and 
almost  a  harlot,  all  combined,  like  one  of  those  beastly  mechan- 
ical book-cases  and  step-ladder  and  kitchen-table  patent  ar- 
rangements .  .  .  and  pull  out  whichever  you  want.  Conven- 
iences bore  me.  Subtleties  bore  me  still  more.  And  you 
can  never  tell,  with  these  new-fangled  girls,  just  how  many 
degrees  they're  still  good  and  how  many  they're  prepared  to 
be  bad.     Oh,  Lord!  — give  me  another  one,  stiff,  Pandos." 

"  And  yet,"  remarked  Theo  Pandos,  complying,  "  I  gathered 
that  you  were  on  very  excellent  terms  with  our  special  little 
group  of  —  what  do  you  call  them?  —  new-fangled  girls?  " 

ClifTe's  features  puckered  to  a  gnome-like  grin:  "Ask  'em. 
I'm  dear  old  Cliff  e  —  just  dear  old  CI  iff  e  —  quite  sexless 
y'know  —  never  been  known  to  love  —  in  —  er  —  that  way. 
It's  funny,  but  I  don't  believe  he  could.  .  .  ." 

Blair  Stevenson  shrugged  his  shoulders  composedly.  "  I'm 
of  a  grateful  nature.  What  God  sends  me,  I  take.  And  what 
He  refuses  me,  I  refuse  to  desire.  Some  people  are  always 
returning  a  gift  with  requests  for  alteration." 

Timothy  sat  listening;  his  eyes  rested  seriously  on  first  one 
speaker  and  then  the  other.  "  Yes,"  he  said  at  last ;  "  But 
what's  it  all  about?  I  mean  —  what  are  they  up  to,  those 
girls?  " 


c 


CHAPTER  IV 


«  /CAPTAIN  ROTHENBURG  —  killed  in  action.  Rothen- 
burg  —  Rothenburg  —  that's  a  German  name.  What 
was  he  doing  in  an  English  command,  I'd  like  to 
know?     Ought  to  have  been  interned." 

Richard  sprang  up,  knuckles  white  with  the  clench  of  his 
hands  on  the  rim  of  the  breakfast-table,  his  brows  a  lowering 
black  ridge  of  anger.  He  and  Mr.  Gryce  confronted  one  an- 
other across  a  space  of  half  the  dining-room.  The  other  vis- 
itors sprinkled  at  the  various  tables  looked  up  expectant,  con- 
scious of  latent  antagonism  spurting  at  last  into  visibility.  The 
old  man's  eyes  bulged  like  pale  marbles  over  the  top  of  his 
newspaper.  ..."  Ought  to  have  been  interned,"  he  repeated 
ostentatiously  to  his  neighbours. 

"  Sit  down,  Richard,"  his  father  commanded  quietly.  And 
as  though  with  a  physical  effort,  the  wrestling  look  was  un- 
locked; the  boy  sat  down,  head  turned  away  from  the  de- 
testable civilian  who  had  dared  sneer  away  Con's  glory.  As  if 
Con  wasn't  as  thumpingly  keen  a  soldier  as  any  of  the  purest 
British  descent!  Con,  the  splendid  sixth-form  hero  of  Rich- 
ard's earliest  Winborough  days.  And  now  ...  to  make  out 
he  had  given  his  life  to  no  effect  because  his  name  happened 
to  be  German.  .  .  . 

Richard  was  still  shaking  from  the  harsh  shock  of  the  news, 
and  from  a  sort  of  desperate  hatred  which  almost  approached 
fear.  "  Is  it  true?  "  he  asked  Ferdie,  who  was  searching 
through  The  Telegraph. 

**  I'm  afraid  so.  Ah,  yes,  here:  On  May  15th  .  .  .  etc.  I 
suppose  his  parents  can  only  just  have  heard.     Nearly  a  week, 

290 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  291 

isn't  it?     Poor  Con,  he  was  a  nice  fellow.     Otto  will  be  upset 
—  his  eldest  boy." 

"  But  why  do  they  print  the  name  Rothenburg?  "  Stella 
questioned  in  a  low  voice,  inaudible  to  Mr.  Gryce. 

"  I  expect  the  young  man  had  the  good  sense  not  to  be 
ashamed  of  his  father's  birthplace,"  rumbled  Hermann  Marcus, 
in  an  aggressive  voice  distinctly  audible  to  Mr.  Gryce,  who 
muttered :  "  Damned  old  Hun !  "  amid  a  murmur  of  surround- 
ing sympathy. 

Richard  explained :  "  David  told  me  Con  held  out  when  the 
rest  of  them  changed  their  name;  he  was  a  Territorial  ages 
before  the  war,  and  his  men  knew  him  as  Rothenburg  —  good 
enough  for  them!  "  with  a  defiant  scowl  in  the  direction  of  Mr. 
Gryce.  The  latter,  sending  out  his  plate  for  more  bacon: 
"I've  had  nothing  but  fat  and  gristle!"  remarked  further 
to  the  young  lady  at  the  table  beside  him:  "  They're  not  half 
strict  enough  over  this  alien  business.  I  like  a  German  to  be  a 
German;  if  they  want  to  fight,  can't  they  stick  to  their  own 
side?  " 

"  Though  I'm  not  surprised  some  of  them  are  ashamed  to," 
he  creaked  on,  pulling  his  tuft  of  beard  irascibly. 

"  No  more,  thanks."  Richard  escaped  from  the  room.  He 
very  rarely  finished  a  meal  nowadays.  .  .  .  Aunt  Stella  fol- 
lowed him  out,  and  waylaid  him  in  the  empty  hall: 

"  Richard,  you  must  take  care  what  you  say  in  the  dining- 
room.  You  shouldn't  have  jumped  up  like  that.  Everybody 
saw." 

"  And  Con  died  so  that  —  so  that  he  could  have  his  second 
helping  of  bacon,"  Richard  exploded. 

"  Yes,  but  you  know  in  our  position  we've  got  to  be  careful. 
You  especially." 

"  It's  so  unfair.  So  beastly  unfair.  If  I  thought  he  only 
said  it  to  get  my  back  up  —  but  he  believes  it.  He  oughtn't 
to  be  let  believe  it.  I  want  to  hammer  it  into  him  that  old  Con 
wasn't  even  conscripted  —  was  ready  at  the  very  first  shove-off. 
Oh,  it's  mean  to  do  him  out  of  the  credit.  Not  that  he  would 
have  cared,  but " 


292  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

Stella  was  surprised.  Her  nephew's  extreme  taciturnity 
was  one  of  her  stock  subjects  for  jest. 

"You'll  have  to  go  and  condole  with  the  Rothenburgs  to- 
day." 

Richard  immediately  lapsed  into  surly  schoolboyhood: 
"Lord!     Must  I?" 

"  David    is    your    friend.     And    as   he   happens   to    be   at 

home Your  father  and  I  will  be  going  after  lunch.     Or 

you  can  call  by  yourself  this  morning  if  you  prefer  it." 

"  Call !  "  he  grumbled.  "  As  if  David  wanted  people  mooch- 
ing about  and  saying  they  were  sorry." 

"  Saying?     Aren't  you  sorry?  " 

.  .  .  Funny,  how  aunts  were  apt  to  say  silly  platitudes  in 
a  silly,  ready-made  voice,  just  when  one  was  paying  them  the 
compliment  of  treating  them  like  humans.  It  showed  how 
careful  you  ought  to  be,  Richard  reflected  glumly,  on  his  way 
to  Hampstead. 

How  on  earth  did  one  "  condole  "?  He  knew  right  enough 
just  how  David  had  cared  about  Con,  and  what  a  swollen 
sensation  attacked  his  own  throat  to  think  of  any  one  so  cheery 
and  keen  on  his  job  and  altogether  decent  as  his  late  school- 
captain,  part  of  a  heap  of  flung-together  mixed-up  limbs  and 
mud  and  stained  khaki,  here  and  there  twitching  still.  .  .  . 

But  all  this  was  well  set  apart  from  official  condolence.  All 
this  led  to  silence,  not  to  speech.  Richard,  deliberately  taking 
the  longest  way  round  to  Fairwarne  Gardens,  became  ever  more 
acutely  uncomfortable  over  his  mission.     Besides 

"  You  ought  to  have  had  it  out  with  Mr.  Gryce." 

The  phrase  spoke  itself  clearly  in  his  mind,  and  with  such 
detached  emphasis,  that  he  started,  almost  glanced  over  his 
shoulder  for  the  speaker. 

It  was  quite  true;  his  father  had  made  a  mistake  in  hushing 
him:  he  himself  had  made  a  mistake  in  surrender.  Mr.  Gryce 
had  had  the  best  of  the  encounter;  and  probably  never  again 
would  Richard  be  whipped  to  such  a  stinging  fury  of  indig- 
nation. An  ingredient  of  fear  might  well  creep  in  .  .  .  fear 
such  as  had  twanged  deep  down  in  his  consciousness  when  Aunt 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  293 

Stella  said :  "  You  especially.  .  .  ."  The  owner  of  those 
light-blue  bulging  eyes  would  not  hesitate  to  use  the  advantage 
of  an  adversary's  birthplace. 

Richard  perceived  uneasily  how  fatal  it  would  be  to  live 
enslaved  by  the  notion  that  he  had  lost  all  right  to  resent. 
Undoubtedly  he  ought  to  have  had  it  out  with  old  Gryce  there 
and  then  at  the  breakfast  table.     Too  late  now.  .  .  . 

And  here  was  the  Redburys'  house  with  blinds  all  lowered. 
He  rang  the  bell;  and  waiting  on  the  doorstep,  tried  to  break 
up  his  face  every  time  it  stiffened  into  a  set  shape  appropriate 
to  the  business  in  hand. 

"Is  Mr.  David  in?" 

David,  in  second-lieutenant's  khaki  sobered  by  a  black 
mourning  band  on  the  sleeve,  hardly  looked  up  from  his  put- 
tees at  Richard's  entrance;  and  when  the  first  apathetic 
"  Hullo !  "  was  over,  there  seemed  nothing  more  to  be  said. 
The  room  was  in  semi-darkness,  and  the  very  slant  of  sunshine 
tlirough  the  chinks  was  furtive. 

"What  on  earth  have  you  come  for?  "  David  burst  out  at 
last  irritably.  "  To  express  your  sincere  sympathy  with  me 
in  my  great  bereavement?  Then  for  the  Lord's  sake,  express 
it  —  if  you  can  —  and  get  it  over,  and  be  natural.  You  make 
me  nervous,  standing  about  as  though  you  had  changed  into 
a  black  tie  before  coming  out,  which  I  wonder  you  haven't!  " 

Richard  in  his  turn  got  thoroughly  bad-tempered.  The  walk 
had  been  hot  and  dusty,  and  there  was  the  episode  of  Mr. 
Gryce  that  morning,  and  —  and  Con  was  dead.  And  now 
David  merely  jeered  at  him. 

"All  right  —  I'm  going;  you  needn't  worry.  I  didn't  come 
here  for  fun,  they  made  me." 

David  laughed  uproariously.  "That's  better;  that's  more 
the  little  Richard  we  know  and  love!  " 

Richard  grunted,  and  banged  himself  into  a  chair.  He  un- 
derstood now.  .  .  .  David's  noisy  laughter  had  shown  him. 

"  When  did  you  get  your  commission?  " 

"  Only  last  week.  Samson  worked  it  for  me  —  through  his 
cousin,  Sir  Ephraim  Phillips.     Did  you  know  Samson  was  back 


294  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

from  the  Front?  —  trench -feet.  Pater's  still  trying  to  rope  him 
into  the  family,  with  Nell  as  a  lasso;  but  I  don't  believe  he's 
having  any;  still  keen  on  Deb." 

"  So  you'll  be  going  to  France,  perhaps.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  in  about  six  months  I  shall  be  able  to  avenge  Con 
by  killing  the  Hun  who  killed  him." 

"  Does  —  would  that  —  help  ?  "  Richard  asked  awkwardly. 
Then  met  David's  ironic  eyes  — 

"  It  ought  to  be  the  attitude,  oughtn't  it?  Beatrice  supplied 
me  with  it,  and  the  family  have  taken  up  the  chorus.  It's 
so  natural  and  picturesque  and  primitive:  the  younger  brother 
belting  on  his  sword  and  going  forth  to  slay  for  the  sake  of  the 
slain.  Old  Grandmother  Phillips,  who  approves  of  me  because 
she  thinks  I  take  my  religion  seriously,  even  added  the  Old 
Testament  touch :  an  eye  for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth.  .  .  . 

"  No,  Richard,  it  doesn't  help  at  all.  If  I  could  land  home 
on  the  one  actual  and  definite  German  who  was  responsible 
for  Con,  it  would  be  different.  I  believe  in  fighting  —  for  love 
of  a  cause.  As  Con  did.  Oh,  Con  never  said  much,  but  he 
was  a  patriot  down  to  bedrock  fundamental;  he  was  a  pre- 
war patriot,  which  was  pretty  rare.  And  now  he's  dead,  I 
can't  possibly  stand  out.  Because  of  my  people.  It  would 
explode  all  that  he's  done  for  them.  '  My  son  who  was  killed 
in  action '  would  be  see-sawed  out  of  all  usefulness  by  '  My 
son  who  conscientiously  objected.'  They  wouldn't  be  able  to 
say  the  words  '  My  son '  at  all.  I  can't  play  them  or  Con  a 
shabby  trick  like  that;  after  all,  patriotism  begins  at  home  — 
loyalty  to  one's  family  is  a  local  form  of  patriotism,  I  suppose. 
If  the  Redburys  were  properly  entrenched,  but 


U  ( 


In  our  position.'  .  .  ."  Richard  quoted  softly. 

And  David  added  with  very  unboyish  bitterness :  "  Pater's 
awfully  upset  now  —  but  I  can  already  foresee  what  a  magnifi- 
cent asset  Con's  death  is  going  to  be  — '  in  our  position,'  as  you 
say.  Pater  will  run  it  for  all  he's  worth.  Marcus,  there's  a 
kink  wrong  in  civilization  when  a  father's  got  to  swank  for 
safety  on  a  son's  death." 

"  Swank?  " 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  295 

"  There  are  letters  to  show,  from  the  Colonel,  from  brother- 
officers,  from  his  men.  It  seems  that  long  after  he  was 
wounded,  he  held  that  bit  of  trench  with  one  machine-gun  to 
cover  a  retreat.     Oh,  the  stock  tale  of  heroism!  " 

Richard  was  badly  jarred  by  the  last  words.  It  struck  him 
that  David  was  carrying  flippant  detachment  rather  too  far; 
one  might  well  be  glad  of  a  brother  who  was  guilty  of  the 
stock  heroism.  "  Con  jolly  well  deserves  a  medal  for  that," 
he  remarked  on  an  aggressive  note. 

And  David  said :  "  He's  been  recommended  for  the  D.  S.  0." 
—  and  suddenly  he  jerked  up  his  head  and  went  crimson.  .  .  . 
Richard  turned  his  eyes  away  from  that  surge  of  hot  red  pride. 
Funny,  how  one  never  knew,  with  David ! 

Trudchen  Redbury  popped  in  her  head,  as  though  in  search 
of  some  one. 

"  Ach,  Davidchen "  she  nodded  kindly  to  the  two  boys, 

but  still  did  not  appear  to  have  found  what  —  or  who  —  she 
wanted.  Her  comfortable  fat  little  face  was  rough  and  scrapy 
with  long  crying  —  the  kind  of  crying  that  goes  on  and  on,  and 
stops  for  a  bit,  and  smiles  and  talks  and  gives  the  orders  in  the 
kitchen,  and  then  meanders  on  again.  .  .  . 

Trudchen  had  none  of  the  Spartan  courage  recommended 
to  mothers  nowadays. 

"  Hullo,  Mums!  " —  David  sprang  up  and  laid  his  arm  round 
her  dumpy  shoulders  and  gently  put  his  lips  to  her  cheek  — 
(Yes,  he  was  a  dear  fellow,  her  youngest  boy,  and  so  much 
more  considerate  than  Con,  who  had  always  nearly  knocked  her 
down  with  his  violent  hugs.  .  .  .  "  Mein  Konrad!  ") 

"  Na,  Richard,  how  goes  your  Aunt  Stella?  " 

"  She's  coming  this  afternoon."  And  Richard  growled 
something  in  which  the  word  "  sorry  "  vaguely  occurred. 

"David,  vot  do  you  sink?  — if  I  write  to  liebe  Anna  now, 
it  vill  gewiss  reach  her  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  sixtieth 
birthday  when  there  vill  be  rejoicings  —  what  one  can  rejoice 

these  days "  she  shrugged  resignedly.     "  Our  Con  more 

than  you  or  Max  your  Aunt's  loveling  ever  was.  Vot  do  you 
sink,  David?" — for  the  second  time;   "shall  I  vait  before 


296  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

I  write  to  Berlin  —  a  month  perhaps?     One  does  not  wish  to 
spoil  a  birthday." 

But  beyond  a  queer  look  shot  towards  Richard,  David  made 
no  comment.  And  presently  Trudchen  went  on,  with  a  sort  of 
chirrupy  perplexity: 

"And  you  know  how  angry  Papa  is  when  I  ask  him  at  all 
about  Anna  and  Karl,  though  he  used  to  love  and  eat  largely 
of  her  Pflaumentorte  and  vex  me  by  naming  it  better  than  mine. 
And  yet  not  even  a  letter  from  me  for  the  sixtieth  birthday  — 
vot  vill  she  think?  And  she  and  I  wiz  ever  only  a  year  between 
.  .  .  but  how  can  one  write  and  say  nothing  about  our  Con  .  .  . 
though  it  will  surely  remind  her  again  of  the  armer  seligen 
Fritz  —  since  how  little  while  is  he  too  .  .  .  my  eldest  and  her 

youngest "  she  sighed.     "  Perhaps  —  no  —  I  will  not  tell 

zem  —  now."     And  yet  again:     "Vot  do  you  sink,  David?  " 

"  There's  Max,"  he  reminded  her.  "  We've  written  to  Max 
—  and  if  he  sees  Uncle  Karl " 

"  Ne,  Schatz,  not  now  they  have  moved  him  to  that  camp 
so  far  away.  .  .  .  And  one  does  not  know  vot  to  believe  or  not; 
they  say  —  Otto  says  the  Chermans  do  such  terrible  sings  to 
the  English  prisoners  —  and  the  Phillips  tell  me  too  —  it  is 
almost  unthinkbar  —  to  cut  off  both  the  hands  at  the 
wrist " 

"Mums,  Mums,  when  you've  had  letters  through  in  Max's 
own  writing " 

"As  if  the  dear  boy  would  worry  me  by  telling  it  in  a 
letter  .  .  ."  sobbed  Trudchen. 

Richard  emphatically  felt  the  need  of  departure.  And  the 
Lord  spared  him  an  encounter  with  Otto  in  the  hall. 

He  lunched,  and  then  sauntered  into  the  afternoon  show 
at  a  music-hall,  thinking  to  get  rid  of  himself  by  plunging  into 
a  mass  of  people  and  a  rattle  of  sound.  But  the  dress-circle 
was  filled  with  an  atmosphere  unusually  attentive  to  the 
performers  on  the  stage;  and  when  the  lights  were  raised 
during  the  interval,  he  perceived  that  the  seats  were  mainly 
occupied  by  a  large  detachment  from  St.  Dunstan's:  men  who 
had  been  blinded  in  the  war;  men  who  had  been  chosen  hap- 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  297 

hazard  for  the  greatest  sacrifice  of  all.  Richard  wondered 
whether  a  single  one  of  them  had  anticipated  such  a  calamity 
as  this;  and  whether,  knowing,  they  would  still  have  willingly 
exposed  themselves;  he  had  heard  so  many  soldiers  bound 
for  the  Front,  half-jokingly  phophesy  their  own  death,  or  a 
broken  nose,  or  a  wooden  leg;  but  —  no,  he  had  never  heard 
the  possibility  of  blindness  joked  about.  Was  this  the  secret 
fear  they  all  carried  in  their  hearts  when  they  volun- 
teered ? 

"  Not  a  bad  show,"  he  remarked  to  his  neighbour,  who 
immediately  turned  on  him  one  immense  rolling  eye  and  a 
tiny  glass  one,  and  became  confidential.  He  was  a  comical 
little  chap,  small  and  square,  with  a  wide  mouth,  a  skyward 
nose,  and  a  knowing  air  that  was  enhanced  by  the  appearance 
of  a  fixed  wink.  He  informed  Richard  that  he  was  the  third 
of  a  trio;  that  he  was  his  mother's  favourite,  and  his  father's 
favourite  and  the  favourite  of  his  two  brothers;  that  one  of 
his  brothers  had  married  a  shrew  and  the  other  a  slattern,  and 
he  alone  had  the  perfect  wife;  and  that  the  less  fortunate 
twain  were  wont  to  say  to  him:  "  Jock,  wish  I  'ad  yer  luck!  " 
.  .  .  Moreover,  he  was  the  secret  favourite  of  both  the  slattern 
and  the  shrew,  and  he  ought  by  rights  to  have  won  the  waltzing 
competition  up  at  St.  Dunstan's  on  Monday  night,  but  his 
partner  had  fouled  his  chances  by  treading  three  times  on  his 
toe,  and  it  was  bluggy  well  the  last  time  he  was  going  to  lug 
her  round  the  room!  .  .  , 

"  You  brick!  "  muttered  Richard  in  his  heart,  over  and  over 
again.  Not  only  to  be  jolly  and  normal,  but  actually  keen 
about  things  still  —  prizes,  and  your  brother's  wife!  not,  as 
one  instinctively  imagined  these  martyrs  of  the  war,  pensive 
and  resigned  and  uncannily  patient,  with  a  sort  of  pale  up- 
liftedness.  .  .  . 

The  jovial  rowdiness  in  that  portion  of  the  auditorium  was 
hushed  as  the  curtain  went  up  on  a  troupe  of  acrobats  and 
dancers  kissing  amorous  hands  to  the  audience,  from  various 
inverted  positions  on  the  trapeze. 

"Wot's    that?"    demanded    Richard's    neighbour.     Then; 


298  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  '  R  —  I  see,  said  the  blind  man !  '  ackerbats  —  lot  o'  use  to 
us  blindies,  that.  Funny  idea  o'  givin'  us  pleasure  some  people 
'ave:  one  old  geezer,  she  came  ter  take  me  out  fer  the  day 
in  a  kerridge  an'  all.  '  Wot-o !  '  sez  I  to  myself.  An' —  are 
you  listenin',  you?  " — with  a  nudge — "  an'  she  took  me  three 
times  to  Church  afore  she  brought  me  back  in  the  evenin' !  " 

Richard  ducked  his  head  in  a  smother  of  laughter;  the 
enormous  eye  rolled  mournfully  in  his  direction,  had  been  so 
pregnant  of  disgust. 

"  Three  times  to  Church,  an'  no  lollies.  An'  me  'elpless. 
Some  people "  words  failed  him.  He  fumbled  precari- 
ously with  a  cigarette  and  a  lighted  match,  quite  matter-of-fact 
over  his  handicap.  "  That  all  right?  "  shaking  the  match  to 
and  fro  and  dropping  it  still  alight;  Richard's  foot  shot  out, 
stealthily.  ..."  'Ave  one?  they  give  us  plenty.  Yus,  when 
she  come  again,  I  was  in  'iding,  betcherlife.  Scout  warned 
me.  'That  pore  well-be'aved  young  man  anywhere  about?  ' 
sez  she  to  Sister;  but  Sister  was  a  sport  and  didn't  let  on. 
So  she  just  took  a  look  round  at  me  pals:  'Are  they  all 
quite  blind?  '  sez  she;  'Yus,  but  they  ain't  deaf,'  sez  Sister, 
quick  as  'ell.  'R  well,  s'pose  'er  idea  of  'appiness  aint  mine; 
she  did  'er  best." 

"  What  does  make  you  happy?  " 

The  reply  was  brief  and  to  the  point:  "  Taxis  an'  cuddlin'." 
...  It  was  not  until  the  last  turn  of  all,  a  Chinese  con- 
juror, that  Richard  found  his  companion's  attention  sufficiently 
astray  from  the  stage  to  permit  him  to  put  a  question  that  had 
lately  nagged  for  an  answer  from  its  source.  "  I  say  —  what 
made  you  join  up?  " 

"  Looked  as  though  'Is  Majesty  wos  invitin'  specially  me 
to  a  private  picnic.  An'  I  sez:  With  pleasure!  .  .  .  Yus, 
an'  then  I  woke  up,  an'  found  one  of  my  eyes  gone  West,  an' 
t'other  deaf-an'-dumb.  Well,  I'm  not  saying  nuffing  to  that; 
wot's  done  is  done,  an'  'ad  ter  be  done  by  some  one,  an'  Gov- 
ernment's paying  me  'ansome  for  the  rest  o'  my  life;  but  when 

it  comes  to  putting  me  to  a  job "  again  a  large  disgusted 

eye  appealed  to  Richard  for  sympathy.     "Work?  not  'alf! 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  299 

And  the  other  chaps  is  that  keen  they  makes  an  awkward 
president." 

"What?" 

"  President.  Same  as  setting  an  example,  only  not  quite. 
But  you  just  see  what  me  mother  thinks  abaht  it."  He  fumbled 
in  his  pockets,  pulled  out  two  or  three  crumpled  letters,  and 
thrust  them  into  Richard's  hand.     "  Read  'em." 

The  main  point  of  the  letters  was  clear :  Harold's  old  mother 
passionately  advised  Harold  not  to  work  —  thank  God  there 
was  plenty  while  she  and  father  could  live  and  work  for  him; 
plenty  afterwards  too  — "  I  will  see  to  that,  son,  so  don't  you 
bother  to  learn  a  trade.  Well,  son,  never  mind  about  your 
sight,  that  don't  matter  to  us ;  at  any  rate  you're  not  one  as  had 
cold  feet.  There'll  always  be  plenty  for  you,  so  don't  you  let 
them  make  you  learn  nothing  you  don't  want,  darling " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Richard  gently,  passing  the  letters  back. 
Most  of  the  last  pages  were  filled  up  with  pencil  crosses;  he 
wondered  if  Harold  knew.  ... 

The  music  was  holding  its  breath  while  Li  Hung  Wang  sur- 
passed himself  in  a  last  effort  of  magic;  resulting  in  a  terrific 
display  of  flags;  and  the  curtains  swaying  together,  back 
again,  and  once  more  together  to  the  opening  chords  of  "  Land 
of  Hope  and  Glory." 

Immediately  the  men  of  St.  Dunstan's  shuffled  to  their  feet 
and  stood  at  attention  while  they  sang  the  first  verse  of 
Elgar's  anthem,  till  the  whole  risen  audience,  enthusiastically 
joining  in,  swamped  their  voices  in  a  volume  of  louder,  fresher 
sound.  .  .  . 

And  Richard  carried  out  in  the  Strand  the  blurred  vision 
of  uneven  rows  of  weedy,  shambling  figures  in  their  ill-fitting 
mufti,  the  ephemeral  vanity  of  khaki  shed  now  for  good, 
ordinary  men  in  ordinary  casual  clothes,  heads  tilted  stiffly 
backwards: 

"Land  of  Hope  and  Glory, 
Mother  of  the  Free — " 

And  he  knew  that  though  the  picture  of  Trudchen  Redbury 
perplexed  over  the  question  whether  tidings  of  Con's  deatli 


300  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

in  the  English  trenches  should  he  sent  to  spoil  the  birthday 
of  her  sister  Anna  in  Berlin,  might  and  did  symbolize  an  inter- 
national predicament  —  yet  that  other  picture  was  indeed  war 
and  the  splendour  of  war  and  beyond  war;  was  patriotism 
itself,  the  urge  and  reason  for  patriotism,  the  ultimate  answer 
to  all  niggling  private  issues;  he  knew  that  before  war  and 
after  war,  war  may  be  averted;  but  during  war  ours  is  to 
shut  both  eyes  and  stand  by  the  blind  and  follow  the  dead. 

And  then,  in  all  the  forgetful  semi-hysterical  jubilance  of 
the  pride  of  belonging,  he  was  brought  to  a  standstill  as  though 
by  a  pounding  blow  on  the  forehead,  confronted  with  a  placard 
of  a  weekly  journal  just  out: 

"  Enemy  Aliens.     Intern  them  all." 

As  surely  a  personal  message  for  him,  as  a  Salvationist's 
shouted  text  goes  straight  home  to  the  heart  of  a  sinner. 

"What's  the  good?  they  don't  want  me.  .  .  ." 

He  seemed  to  be  repeating  vaguely  some  childish  experience 
of  disappointment,  when  his  eagerly  proffered  help  was  turned 
away  with  the  same  superciliousness  of  uncomprehending  re- 
buff. 

"  They  don't  want  me.  Well  —  I  don't  want  them  either!  " 
...  he  was  not  so  very  much  older  now,  after  all. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  English!  " 

No,  Richard?  Not  even  for  the  sake  of  those  rows  of  eyes, 
bandaged  and  gutted  and  black-spectacled?  Not  even  for 
the  right  to  join  in  as  those  men  stood  at  attention,  and  chanted 
in  the  queer  flat  strains  peculiar  to  the  blind: 

"  How  can  we  extol  thee 
Who  are  bom  of  thee?  "... 

Not  even  to  be  one  of  them,  Richard? 

"Well,  I  wasn't  born  in  England,  so  what  does  it  matter?  " 
But  he  was  aware,  in  a  positive  flash  of  knowledge,  that  had 
he  been  permitted  to  go  into  the  trenches  and  fight,  it  would 
have  been  bang  there,  between  the  eyes,  that  his  bullet  would 
have  caught  and  shattered  him  .  .  .  there,  where  the  insult 
of  the  placard  seemed  first  to  have  struck.     He  had  not  been 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  301 

allowed  the  choice  of  which  blow ;  so  how  could  he  ever  prove 
to  this  coldly,  carelessly  exclusive  England,  how  the  choice 
would  unquestioningly  have  swung? 

Half-an-hour  later,  as  he  stormed  through  the  hall  of  Mon- 
tagu House,  he  was  greeted  by  the  menace  of  Mr.  Gryce's  voice, 
creaking,  creaking.  .  .  . 

"  Naturalized  or  unnaturalized,  it's  all  the  same  —  the 
leopard  can't  change  his  spots!  " 

And  the  day  was  rounded  to  a  perfect  circle. 

II 

And  after  that,  Mr.  Gryce's  voice  miked  itself  up  with  pretty 
well  everything;  but  particularly  with  Richard's  three  meals 
a  day  in  the  dining-room  of  Montagu  Hall.  He  would  like 
to  have  disappointed  Mr.  Gryce  by  occasional  absences  from 
meals  —  taking  it  for  granted  that  the  Inquisitor  does  feel  a 
certain  disappointment  at  the  absence  of  his  victims  from  the 
rack;  but,  remembering  David's  remarks  on  patriotism  locally 
applied,  he  forced  himself  to  be  present  for  his  father's  sake; 
forced  his  taciturnity  to  voluble  talk,  throwing  up  a  screen 
between  Ferdie  and  the  enemy;  or,  if  that  failed,  at  least 
grandfather  could  sometimes  be  diverted  from  the  muttered 
arrogance  of  patriotism  —  German  patriotism  —  which  might 
at  any  moment,  via  Mr.  Gryce's  hearing,  provoke  a  public 
scene.  Richard  dreaded  a  scene  now  as  much  as  he  had  sought 
it  at  the  incident  of  Con  Rothenburg's  death;  it  was  as  though 
his  pugnacity  had  been  wounded,  and  would  not  heal,  and 
was  raw-sensitive.  .  .  . 

Especially  raw-sensitive  to  Mr.  Gryce;  his  pores  were  all 
open  to  Mr.  Gryce,  who  from  merely  ignoring  the  Marcus 
family,  was  suddenly  subjecting  them  to  active  nagging  per- 
secution. The  recent  loss  of  the  Hampshire,  with  Lord 
Kitchener  aboard,  had  resulted  in  another  wave  of  anti-German 
feeling  sweeping  over  the  country.  Richard  hardly  wondered 
at  it;  he  was  furiously  resentful,  furiously  suspicious  himself 
Qver  the  happening  —  but  that  did  not  prevent  him  from  equal 


302  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

wrath  when  Mr.  Gryce  considered  himself  patriotically  entitled 
thereby  to  bang  doors  in  Aunt  Stella's  face. 

The  truth  was  that  Richard  and  Mr.  Gryce  were  both  afflicted 
with  the  same  obsession  —  the  internment  of  enemy  aliens ;  to 
each  of  them  the  war  centred  entirely  on  this  point,  radiating 
thence  on  spokes  of  lesser  interest.  But  Mr.  Gryce  was  on  his 
own  territory. 

Three  meals  a  day!  They  met  in  the  hall;  they  met  on 
the  stairs  and  landings;  in  the  streets  round  about  the  house 
.  .  .  but  they  passed  with  quickening  step,  averted  eyes,  and 
a  twitching  sense  of  the  other's  nearness.  But  those  three 
meals  a  day  had  to  be  stolidly  endured.  Breakfast  was  worst, 
for  then  Mr.  Gryce  read  aloud  the  papers  to  his  neighbours,  and 
delivered  his  opinions  —  all  at  the  Marcus  table,  for  he  never 
spoke  to  them  directly.  Richard  tried  being  earlier  than 
Mr.  Gryce  at  breakfast  .  .  .  but  then  he  had  to  see  the  pink 
head  and  the  wisp  of  white  beard  travel  down  the  room,  sit 
down  at  the  table,  and  with  a  certain  vmctuous  deliberation, 
imfold  the  paper;  watch  him  .  .  .  and  then  wait,  with  a  cold 
sickness   of  anticipation,   for  the   first   rusty   creak:     "What 

do  you  think  the  Germans  have  been  doing  now? "     How 

many  thousand  times  more  would  he  have  to  hear  Mr.  Gryce's 
vicious  inflexion  of  the  word:  Germans —  ("  He  doesn't  mean 
the  fighting  Germans,  the  Germans  out  there;  he  means  us; 
he  means  me.  .  .  .") 

Presently  it  seemed  to  Richard  that  the  creak  of  the  voice 
and  the  pinkness  of  the  head  was  mixing  itself  in  with  the  very 
food  he  swallowed,  poisoning  it.  .  .  . 

For  the  boy  had  reached  that  state  where  he  felt  himself 
acutely  and  personally  responsible  for  every  atrocity  commit- 
ted by  the  Hun  enemy;  his  nerves  shrank  and  cowered  from 
each  newly-printed  horror  or  treachery  or  brutality,  as  from  a 
thong  laid  across  his  bare  shoulders.  And  there  was  always 
something  —  hospital  ships  sunk  —  English  prisoners  tortured 
—  liner  passengers  drowned  —  poison  gas  —  Zepp  raids  on 
non-combatants  —  wanton  violation  again  and  again  of  the 
code  of  decent  warfare.     Richard,  tired  out  from  the  long  day- 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  303 

to-day  strain,  only  wanted  the  Germans  for  pity's  sake  to  stop 
—  if  but  for  a  little  while,  to  stop.  .  .  .  All  England  had  dwin- 
dled to  Mr.  Gryce,  and  there  was  no  one  but  Richard  himself 
to  stand  forward  and  answer  for  all  Germany's  accumulating 
reproach ! 

He  put  up  a  gallant  enough  struggle  to  retain  his  fairness 
of  vision.  And  presently  his  imagination,  up  to  all  sorts  of 
tricks  in  these  days,  was  able  to  see  himself  and  his  personality 
on  the  nerves  of  Mr.  Gryce,  in  exact  replica  of  Mr.  Gryce  on 
the  nerves  of  Richard  Marcus  .  .  .  saw  the  irritation  in  the 
curve  of  his  own  stolid  ill-tempered  shoulders  —  the  antag- 
onism aroused  by  his  out-thrust  underlip  and  the  butting  car- 
riage of  his  head.  .  .  .  "Always  that  boy!  and  a  loyal  Eng- 
lishman has  no  option  but  to  live  in  the  same  house,  breathing 
the  same  air,  eat  and  sit  in  the  same  room,  tread  the  same 
carpet  —  it's  a  disgrace!  "  Richard  was  so  detachedly  aware 
of  this  point  of  view  that  at  certain  hysterical  moments  of 
encounter  he  was  not  sure  if  he  were  driven  out  of  the  smoking- 
room  by  sight  of  that  inevitable  pink  head,  or  whether  he  were 
banging  the  door  with  the  hand  of  Mr.  Gryce's  fury  because 
those  Marcus  shoulders  were  discovered  himiping  in  the  arm- 
chair by  the  window. 

He  mistrusted  an  imagination  as  flexible.  But  the  more 
he  denied  it  and  resented  it,  the  more  uncannily  it  functioned. 
Marcus  of  Winborough  two  years  ago  would  have  cut  the 
present  Marcus  dead,  dubbing  him  a  freak  ...  he  saw  that 
too. 

He  was  far  from  desire  to  defend  the  Germans.  He  exam- 
ined their  conduct  generally,  their  methods  of  warfare,  with 
that  new  impartiality  of  his;  gave  them  their  due  of  victory, 
resource,  consistency  and  stubborn  devotion  to  their  country; 
and  nevertheless  came  to  a  conclusion  that  whereas  a  decent 
German  might  be  almost  as  decent  as  a  decent  Briton,  a  rotten 
German  is  immeasurably  rottener  than  the  rottenest  Briton. 
The  sinking  of  hospital  ships,  for  instance;  wantonly  to  plunge 
into  icy  death  the  broken  suff"ering  bodies  of  men  who  had  once 
already,  perilously  and  with  infinite  care,  been  dragged  back 


304  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

to  life,  and  only  asked  now  to  be  let  rest  with  their  own 
people  again  in  their  own  land.  Nothing  could  condone  the 
sinking  of  hospital  ships  .  .  .  and  Richard  had  to  clench  his 
teeth  on  the  longing  to  join  hotly  in  the  chorus  of  condemna- 
tion; as  he  had  also  to  grind  down  the  impulse  to  join  the 
shouting  when  the  news  was  good  and  glorious  — "  What  have 
either  of  tliese  to  do  with  you?  " 

By  unspoken  pact,  the  Marcuses  remained  silent  on  these 
subjects,  when  in  public;  they  did  not  gain  much  by  the 
attitude,  for  people  commented  in  whispers:  "Have  you  no- 
ticed that  they  never  have  anything  to  say  on  our  victories, 
or  about  the  atrocities?  Bound  to  have  sympathies  with  the 
other  side;  wonder  what  they  say  among  themselves?  "  On 
the  other  hand,  if  they  expressed  their  perfectly  spontaneous 
pleasure  over  an  English  feat  of  arms,  and  their  quite  imaf- 
fected  indignation  over  a  Hun  outrage,  they  were  instantly  ac- 
cused of  hypocrisy  and  over-acting,  and  Mr.  Gryce  said :  "  I 
like  a  German  at  least  to  be  a  German !  " 

It  was  a  diflScult  problem,  but  on  the  whole,  perhaps,  silence 
solved  it  best.  And  Ferdie  tried  to  impart  to  his  son  some  of 
that  placid  philosophy  which  formed  a  firm  basis  to  his  more 
surface  characteristics. 

"  My  dear  boy,  what  do  you  expect?  —  that  in  times  like 
these  the  English  will  cherish  us  for  our  Greman  origin?  On 
the  whole,  they  are  lenient  and  fair-minded " 

"  Yes,  but  they  promised  you  —  promised  without  reserva- 
tion, that  you  should  be  as  good  as  an  Englishman,  equal  to  any 
Englishman.  And  because  it  was  the  English  who  promised, 
we  —  you  —  we  all  thought  it  was  all  right  .  .  ."  his  tone 
was  heavy  with  reproach  for  the  country  which  of  all  coim- 
tries  had  a  reputation  for  welcoming  and  sheltering  those 
refugees  from  harsher  lands  and  laws. 

For  Richard,  in  want  of  occupation,  had  begun  to  read 
lately;  hoping  to  find  in  history  the  companionship  of  other 
children  of  No  Man's  Land;  common-sense  told  him  that  in 
every  war  must  have  been  a  few  examples  of  betwixt  and 
between,  belonging  to  both  sides  and  therefore  outcast  from 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  305 

either  side.  He  was  comforted,  in  an  odd  sort  of  way,  by  this 
hunt  through  old  tomes  and  chronicles,  for  precedent  to  his 
own  position.  Precedent  that  he  could  quote  authoritatively 
to  Ferdie,  less  well-informed. 

"  Be  patient,"  said  Ferdinand  Marcus.  "  One  day  the  war 
will  be  over,  and  all  will  be  forgotten." 

"Not  it.  Never.  No  foreigner  will  ever  feel  safe  in  Eng- 
land again." 

"  Why  not?  we  suffer  from  inconvenience,  not  from 
tyranny." 

"  But  in  their  heart  of  hearts  they've  chucked  us  out  for 
good.  .  .  .  Haven't  you  heard  old  Gryce  swear  he'll  never 
shake  hands  with  a  German  again?  " 

Ferdie  weighed  the  question  of  old  Gryce  with  solemn 
deliberation,  and  then  summed  up:  "Yes,  he  has  the  mania 
to  persecute.  One  can  imdersland  —  but  one  wishes  he  would 
not  insult  your  aunt.     But  perhaps  he  has  lost  a  son." 

"Oh  —  is  this  Regent  Street  or  Tuesday?"  impatiently. 
"No  forgivable  link  of  cause  and  effect.  Besides,  he  hasn't 
lost  a  son.  He's  not  even  married.  It's  just  that  he  has 
nothing  better  to  do.  You  never  hear  a  fellow  who's  back 
from  the  Front,  using  himself  up  in  anti-alien  agitation.  But 
old  Gryce  talks  big  about  brave  little  Belgium  —  and  then 
raises  hell  if  the  Belgians  get  served  with  the  pudding  before 
him  at  dinner.  I'm  not  unreasonable.  Dad;  I  can  understand 
perfectly  well  that  while  the  Germans  are  murdering  our  men 
and  women  it's  natural  that  the  relations  of  our  murdered 
men  and  women  find  it  painful  to  meet  us,  even  though  we're 
not  the  same  Germans.  That's  why  the  internment  penalty 
is  a  just  penalty,  I  suppose;  at  any  rate,  I  don't  see  how  it 
could  be  avoided.  But  petty  nagging  is  different.  There'd 
be  some  sense  in  the  not-shaking-hands  business  if  one  could 
strike  away  a  hand  that  was  the  concentrated  essence  of  all 
that  was  foul  in  Germany " 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Ferdinand  slowly,  "  if  you  have  any  idea 
of  all  that  is  foul  in  Germany?  —  of  what  drove  a  whole  colony 
to  England  in  1848?  —  the  Acht-und-vierzigers,  as  they  call 


306  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

themselves,  those  few  who  are  still  alive  and  whose  sons  are 
now  part  and  parcel  of  the  British  Empire,  bleeding  for  it.  .  .  ." 

"Eighteen-forty-eight?  —  that  was  a  democratic  revolt 
against  the  domination  of  Prussia  over  the  smaller  states, 
wasn't  it?  " 

"Yes;  the  only  way  we  could  protest;  we  could  hardly 
enter  into  Civil  War  —  we  who  wanted  only  peace.  The  early 
socialists.  So  we  escaped  to  England,  and  we  are  glad  we 
escaped.  We  —  well,  I  was  not  bom  yet;  my  turn  came  later, 
and  was  more  solitary.  But  there  lies  the  root  of  our  antag- 
onism to  the  fatherland  that  bore  us;  and  that  is  what  the  Eng- 
lish find  so  hard  to  understand  in  us  now.  They  argue  by 
analogy :  because  no  Englishman  can  ever  feel  anything  but  an 
Englishman,  so  no  German  —  etc.  But  the  English  nature  is 
different  .  .  .  and  besides,  it  has  had  no  need  for  discontent; 
no  need  to  exchange  their  own  •  country  for  another.  They 
think  we  still  love  Germany.  But  are  we  not  here  because  we 
hate  Germany?  I  have  no  wish  to  make  speeches  or  to  give 
you  a  history-lesson,  Richard;  but  I  sometimes  wish,  when  I 
see  you  angry  with  me  for  —  how  did  you  once  put  it?  — 
shoving  you  in  a  position  with  your  feelings  in  one  pocket  and 
your  birth-certificate  in  the  other,  I  sometimes  wish  you  real- 
ized a  little  better  how  you  would  have  rebelled  against 
German  education  and  drill  system  and  forced  Imperialism; 
rebelled,  or  —  worse  still  —  submitted.  You  have  noticed 
your  grandfather,  even  now  that  he  is  old  and  ill  and  in  a 
strange  land,  how  rudely  he  still  speaks,  how  dogmatically  he 
thinks,  how  arbitrary  are  his  judgments,  and  how  he  con- 
siders nobody.  That  is  all  military  Germany  embodied. 
There  is  another  side  to  Germany,  certainly,  but  it  is  crushed 
during  war-time.  Perhaps  it  will  flower  softly  again  after- 
wards   " 

"Afterwards?  Oh,  father,  will  there  ever  be  an  after- 
wards?    Will  it  be  over  by  next  year,  do  you  think?  " 

(Next  Autumn  he  would  be  eighteen.  .  .  .) 

The  elder  Marcus  looked  doubtful:     "  Who  can  tell?     Have 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  307 

you  seen  in  today's  paper?  —  there  have  been  peace  nego- 
tiations   " 

"  Anything  real?  " 

And  again:  "  Who  can  tell?  You  had  better  see  for  your- 
self.    Here." 

But  Richard  only  made  a  pretext  of  seeing  for  himself. 
He  dreaded  reading  the  papers;  made  any  sort  of  excuse  not 
to  do  so.  The  papers  were  always  full  of  allusions,  direct  or 
indirect,  to  naturalized  and  unnaturalized  Germans,  to  spies 
in  our  midst,  reproaches  to  the  Government  for  laxness,  in- 
citements to  reprisals,  leagues  for  the  future  exclusion  of  Ger- 
mans or  semi-Germans,  root  and  branch,  from  all  association 
with  civilized  countries.  Even  if  one  hunted  through  the 
whole  paper  with  ever-growing  relief  at  one  day,  one  issue, 
free  from  barbed  reproach  ...  at  the  last,  a  small  paragraph 
would  surely  catch  the  eye  and  destroy  the  momentary  security. 
So  Richard  read  no  papers.  The  posters  were  bad  enough, 
blatant  or  mysterious  from  the  kerbstone;  you  could  not  avoid 
those,  except  by  never  stirring  from  the  house  .  .  .  and  in 
the  house  was  Mr.  Gryce.  Besides,  there  is  no  escape  when 
the  mind  is  spread  like  a  net  to  catch  all  stray  matter  that  has 
bearing  on  the  morbid  obsession.  Even  when  it  is  a  question 
of  going  round  the  corner  to  have  a  pair  of  Aunt  Stella's  boots 
soled  and  heeled.  .  .  . 

In  the  little  street  were  rival  cobblers;  one  with  the  name: 
Marshall,  obviously  re-painted  over  a  name  possibly  less 
pleasing  to  his  customers;  the  other  displaying  a  large  placard 
in  the  window:     "  No  German  Taint  Here!  " 

"Yes,  but  it's  rather  mean  to  make  an  advertisement  out 
of  it!  "  and  Richard,  against  express  orders,  carried  Aunt 
Stella's  boots  to  Mr.  Marshall.  The  latter  was  a  lank  sad- 
faced  individual  with  a  slight  cockney  accent;  he  confided  in 
Richard  that  he  had  unfortunately  been  born  in  Germany  of  a 

German  father "  but  p'raps  I  oughtn't  to  be  tellin'  you 

this,  sir?  "  "It's  all  right,"  gruffly.  "Brought  up  over  'ere 
with  me  aunt  and  uncle  who  put  me  in  the  army  —  the  reg'lar 


308  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

army,  that  is.  Yes,  oh,  yes,  I  wos  a  Tommy  years  before 
the  war,  an'  went  through  all  the  Gallipoli  part  of  it.  'Ot 
stuff! — I  wos  shipped  home  nearly  dead  from  an  explodin' 
shell.  They  discharged  me  out  o'  hospital  at  last,  an'  dis- 
charged me  from  the  army;  an'  I  took  over  me  late  uncle's  job 
'ere.  No,  I'm  not  partial  to  cobblin';  I  tried  most  other 
things,  but  they  won't  'ave  me  nowhere,  being  so  to  speak,  a 
German,  sir.  They  ask  very  particular,  you  see,  nowadays. 
And  this  isn't  payin',  neither  .  .  .  not  by  any  manner  of 
means.  Customers  remember  the  name.  Fact  is,  sir,  I'm 
afraid  I  shall  'ave  to  be  quick  with  these  'ere  boots  —  I'm 
wantin'  to  oblige  you,  since  you  brought  'em  'ere,  but  I'm 
obliged  to  shut  up  shop  next  week." 

"What  will  you  do?" 

"Nothing  for  me  to  do  but  ask  'em  to  intern  me,  sir.  A 
man  can't  starve.  Wot  I'm  fearin'  rather,  is  that  them  in 
the  internment  camp  won't  make  me  over  welcome  neither,  me 
havin'  fought  against  'em,  and  bein'  mostly  English  in  my 
ways." 

Richard  whistled  .  .  .  "What  an  old  muddle  it  is!  I'm 
in  the  same  box,"  he  added,  envying  the  man  his  Gallipoli 
experience,  exploding  shell  and  all. 

"  Yes,  I  know,  sir;  or  I  wouldn't  'ave  been  so  bold " 

"Know?  How  do  you  know?  "  God!  there  surely  could 
not  be  anything  German  in  his  appearance  .  .  .  horrible 
thought! 

"  It's  talked  about  among  the  folks  in  the  neighbourhood, 
sir;  there's  a  gentleman  at  Montagu  'All  as  isn't  too  friendly 
to  you,  I  believe ;  an'  'e  seems  to  have  told  the  policeman  at  the 
corner  to  keep  a  sharp  eye " 

"  I  see.     Thanks.     Good-day." 

Mr.  Gryce.  And  tlie  mythical  policeman  of  Otto  Rothen- 
burg's  dread,  materialised  at  last.  Not  that  it  mattered; 
there  was  nothing  for  him  to  find  out.  "  May  as  well  make 
up  my  mind  to  the  fact  that  I'm  a  criminal,"  muttered  Richard 
with  a  grim  smile.  It  was  part  of  the  nightmare  that  his 
absolute  belief  that  the  foimdations  of  things  were  "  all  right," 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  309 

solid  ground  upon  which  the  foot  might  solidly  tread,  had  now 
been  shaken  to  this  .  .  .  this  ricketiness.  "  I  cant  be  a  Ger- 
man —  I  don't  like  the  Germans!  "  his  cry  of  a  year  ago,  had 
been  incredulous  of  a  state  of  the  world  in  which  such  things 
could  happen.  Now:  "  I  haven't  done  anything!  " — but  his 
tone  was  acceptance  that  such  things  did  happen,  and  there- 
fore anything  could  happen,  and  go  on  happening  .  .  .  who 
or  what  was  left  to  stand  security? 

"  When  will  the  boots  be  ready?  "  Aunt  Stella  enquired. 

"  Early  next  week." 

"As  soon  as  that?  " 

Richard  explained. 

"  I  told  you  to  take  them  to  the  other  man,"  displeased. 

"  Thought  poor  old  Marshall  needed  encouragement." 

"  Then  leave  encouragement  to  people  in  a  different  position. 
I've  warned  you  before  that  we  must  be  careful." 

Stella  was  certainly  careful;  the  most  careful  of  the  family. 
She  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  lady  who  recently 
came  to  Montagu  Hall  and  who  gave  Richard  one  moment  of 
sardonic  happiness  by  demanding  of  Mr.  Gryce,  in  innocent 
and  guttural  friendliness :  "  Haf  you  got  a  dable-dime,  my 
Sir?  " 

Mr.  Gryce,  more  successful  with  her  than  with  the  Marcuses 
—  perhaps  her  credentials  were  less  unimpeachable  —  had  her 
removed  within  a  week ;  but  not  before  she  had  thrice  beamingly 
tried  to  attach  herself  to  Stella,  under  the  false  impression  that 
here  at  least  she  was  bound  to  find  kindly  compatriotism  and 
shelter,  and  thrice  had  suffered  a  chilling  snub  delivered  with- 
out consideration  for  her  possible  feelings,  "  She's  ever  so 
much  more  German  than  we  are,"  Stella  expained  to  the  other 
members  of  her  family;  "we  really  can't  risk  it  —  in  our  po- 
sition!    Just  as  well  that  old  Gryce  is  getting  rid  of  her." 

Richard  thought:     "  It'll  be  us  next.  .  .  ." 

He  did  not  say  so.  After  his  one  outburst  to  Ferdie,  he 
never  mentioned  Mr.  Gryce  to  him  again  .  .  .  could  not,  some- 
how, get  the  name  past  a  thickness  in  his  throat.  The  three 
Marcuses  imagined  that  Richard  did  not  notice  Mr.  Gryce  and 


310  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

his  malignant  attitude —  ("Richard  was  never  observant!  ") 
.  .  .  He  was  glad  for  them  to  believe  it.  Mr.  Gryce  had  taken 
it  upon  himself,  of  late,  to  warn  every  fresh  arrival  at  Montagu 
Hall,  of  the  deadly  growth  in  their  midst.  Richard  watched 
him  do  it  once,  from  the  other  end  of  the  long  drawing-room; 
he  could  have  strode  out,  certainly;  but,  for  discipline  of  that 
unruly  sense  of  fear,  he  forced  himself  deliberately  to  witness 
the  give-away;  one  did  not  surrender  to  fear  without  a  struggle. 
But  .  .  .  Mr.  Gryce  worked  himself  into  his  sleep,  now,  and 
made  it  hideous.  He  dreamt  wildly  of  scenes  with  Mr.  Gryce, 
in  which,  instead  of  hurling  at  him  all  the  wounding,  tearing 
speeches  repressed  during  the  day  —  which  might  have  been 
some  relief  —  he  was  compelled  instead  to  follow  him  about, 
pleading  his  case,  over  and  over  again :  "  Don't  you  —  can^t 
you  understand  —  it  isn't  my  fault?  It's  nobody's  fault.  You 
can't  stop  yourself  from  hating  us,  but  you  couldn't  have 
stopped  yourself  from  being  born  in  Germany  either  —  oh,  do 
try  and  see  that.  .  .  ."  It  was  perfectly  damnable  to  have  to 
plead  with  Mr.  Gryce,  even  in  sleep,  and  to  be  helpless  in  pre- 
venting the  subconscious  self  from  these  humiliating  displays. 
"Can  — I  — help  — for  — it?"  .  .  .  Why,  that  was  what 
Gottlieb  Schnabel  had  gasped.  .  .  .  Mixed  up  with  his  dreams, 
the  old  sick  dream  of  a  flour-smeared  face  cowering  from  his 
pursuers  —  from  Richard  —  from  Richard  himself.  .  ,  . 

His  punishment,  these  slow  fear-bitten  months;  punishment 
for  his  previous  denseness  of  imagination.  Yes,  yes,  but  it 
has  gone  on  so  long,  and  there  seems  no  end  to  it,  and  I'm 
tired  and  frightened  and  beaten  —  beaten  to  my  knees.  You 
who  send  punishment  and  You  who  can  stay  it,  let  it  be  over 
now.  .  .  . 

m 

"  Are  you  alone?  " 

"Richard!" 

Deb  shrank  with  a  cold  sense  of  shock  at  sight  of  his  face, 
from  which  all  fleshiness  had  contracted  to  a  drawn  covering 
of  the  bony  structure;  hollows  in  the  cheeks;   hard  mouth; 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  311 

and  eyes  that  had  known  persecution.  ..."  Richard,  what 
is  it  ?  I  haven't  seen  you  for  about  six  weeks.  Have  you  been 
ill?  " 

"  No.     I  say,  are  you  alone?  " 

"Yes;  La  llorraine  and  Manon  won't  be  in  for  ages." 

"  You  —  you  —  you've  got  to  marry  Samson  Phillips." 

"  I  mean.  ...  I  want  you  to,"  when  he  saw  her  choking 
bewilderment. 

Deb  perceived  that  he  was  in  extremes.  "  I'll  do  anything, 
Richard."  She  just  touched  him  with  her  hand.  And  he' 
stumbled  forward  and  put  his  head  down  in  her  lap  and  began 
to  cry. 

"  Richard  .  .  .  dear  old  boy  .  .  ."  she  was  athrill  with 
terror  now.  It  was  horrible  to  hear  him,  with  the  knowledge 
how  his  normal  self,  the  self  which  for  seventeen  years  had 
stood  for  all  that  was  chunky  and  gruff  and  pugnacious,  was 
abhorring,  or  would  presently  return  to  abhor,  this  sudden 
utter  breakdown  of  all  control.  "  Tell  me  —  oh,  do  tell  me," 
Deb  pleaded  to  the  hunched  suffering  curve  of  his  shoulders. 

"  They  won't  leave  us  alone  .  .  .  the  pink  heads.  Deb  — 
rows  of  pink  heads  everywhere  —  you  can  see  them  from  the 
top  —  yes,  sitting  round  tables  ...  all  over  England :  '  Intern 
the  Alien  Enemy.'  But  it  isn't  that  so  much;  I'm  getting 
used  to  the  thought  of  it,  for  me;  one  year  —  not  quite  —  and 
I  shall  be  interned.  .  .  .  What's  the  word  make  you  feel?  — 
cold  iron  and  damp  black  earth.     But  it  isn't  that " 

"What  is  it  then,  dear?" 

"  Deb,  d'you  know  why  England  and  Germany  are  fighting? 
Such  a  silly  reason !  —  to  find  out  if  Goethe  or  Shakespeare  was 
the  greatest.     Lothar  said  so." 

"  We're  fighting  to  keep  England  a  free  country,"  Deb  spoke 
clearly  and  simply  as  to  a  child  .  .  .  her  young  brother  was 
even  less  than  a  child  in  his  shaken  hysterical  outpourings. 

"Are  we?  I've  been  thinking  too  much,  thinking  all  the 
time,  and  all  round.  ...  I  want  to  stop  thinking,  but  I  don't 
know  where  to  begin  to  stop,  or  why  I  ever  started  to  think. 
,  .  .  Sometliing    happened    to    Gottlieb    Schnabel    and    he 


312  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

screamed  —  but  it  was  quite  right,  Deb,  he  was  a  German ;  he 
shouldn't  have  left  Germany;  perhaps  his  father  brought  him 
here  and  didn't  have  him  naturalized;  if  he'd  stopped  over 
there  he  might  have  fought  for  his  country  —  tho'  he'd  have 
been  a  rotten  fighter.  Anyway,  the  Germans  wouldn't  have 
him  now.     They  wouldn't  have  me." 

"  But  even  if  —  you'd  never ?  .  .  .  Richard  \ '^ 

He  was  silent,  too  tired  to  attempt  to  tell  her  of  all  the 
bludgeonings  his  spirit  had  received  since  that  evening  in  the 
May  of  1915.  "  But  I'd  still  knock  down  the  fellow  who  hinted 
that  I  cared  a  curse  for  any  country  except  England  .  .  . 
England.  .  .  ." 

But  England  had  informed  him  fifty  times  a  day,  and  by 
fifty  different  methods,  subtle  and  brutal,  that  she  had  no  need 
of  him,  no  use  for  him,  preferred  to  do  without  him,  doubted 
and  despised  him.  .  .  .  Loyalty  crept  shivering  into  a  corner 
at  last  .  .  .  loyalty  was  apathetic,  numb 

"What's  the  good?  It  just  has  to  be  like  this.  They'd 
persecute  me  in  Germany  for  being  English,  worse  than  in 
England  for  being  German.  And  the  neutral  countries  are 
all  getting  sucked  in  one  side  or  the  other.  ...  I  thought  once 
we  could  all  go  to  America.  What's  the  good!  everybody's 
fighting  for  something  they  believe  in!  everybody's  got  their 
back  to  the  wall  .  .  .  there's  not  even  a  wall  for  us;  only 
dropping  spaces.  .  .  .  No  Man's  Land.  ...  I  dream  of  it 
when  I  fall  asleep  —  nowhere  to  go  —  and  reeling  pushes  from 
all  sides  —  you  spin  round  and  round,  and  your  brain  spins 
round  and  round  —  nowhere  to  go  and  nowhere  to  rest  —  for 
Thomas  Spalding  and  me.  .  .  .  You  hope  it's  going  to  end, 
but  it  doesn't,  and  they  hate  us  worse  every  day  .  .  .  they 
hate  us  worse  than  they  hate  the  real  Germans.  ...  I  don't 
know  why,  I  don't  know  what  we've  done  —  except  perhaps 
that  we're  here  and  near  at  hand;  it's  more  fun  to  hate  some- 
thing that's  near,  isn't  it?  We  hang  on  and  try  to  prove  that 
we're  loyal  and  all  right  .  .  .  the  hate  seems  to  be  receding 
.  ,  .  and  then  something  happens  —  and  naturally  it  all  rolls 
up  agpin-     Deb,  it's  a  double  treachery  when  one  of  our  lot 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  313 

betrays  England  to  Germany  —  they  betray  us  to  England  at 
the  same  time  .  .  .  and  you  can  see  the  pink  heads  bob- 
bing " 

"  The  war  will  be  over  one  day." 

The  boy  lifted  his  face;  showed  her  the  eyes  of  a  fighter 
crucified  to  inaction: 

"  And  what  sort  of  a  world  do  you  suppose  it  will  be,  after 
the  war,  for  men  who  haven't  fought  in  the  war?  The  others 
will  talk  and  remember  —  and  I'll  be  shut  outside  their  talk 
and  memories.  They'll  have  suffered,  and  lost  their  pals,  and 
helped  their  pals  through  with  it  —  I  shall  have  suffered  noth- 
ing and  lost  nothing  and  helped  no  one.  I  —  oh,  I  was  kept 
safe  ...  in  cold  storage!  God!  the  meanest  little  whelp  of 
a  Servian  or  Bulgarian,  German,  Turk,  or  Belgian  —  it  doesn't 
matter  what  side,  when  you're  in  the  scrum,  heart  and  soul  — 
he  will  have  taken  a  risk  denied  to  me.  I'm  funking  life  after 
the  war,  worse  even  than  today  and  tomorrow  and  next  week  — 
and  next  Autumn.     Didn't  know  I  was  a  funk,  did  you,  Deb  ?  " 

She  asked  slowly:  "Will  it  really  do  you  any  good,  if  I 
marry  Samson  Phillips?  " 

And  Richard  got  up,  frowning.  "No.  What  makes  you 
ask  that?  " 

"  You  said  —  when  you  came  in " 

"  Did  I?  "  he  muttered.  "  I  didn't  know  —  didn't  mean  to. 
I'm  all  in  bits;  don't  take  any  notice."  He  dug  his  hands 
into  his  pockets,  and  walked  away  to  the  window. 

It  was  significant  that  he  growled  out  no  apologies  for  hav- 
ing cried.  That  he  should  be  capable  of  such  a  thing  was 
accepted,  wearily,  with  the  other  horrors. 

Queer  how  the  very  bend  of  his  neck  made  his  sister  feel  sore 
with  tenderness  .  .  .  she  must  help  him  butt  through  his  bad 
hour.  And  she  reproached  herself  for  neglecting  him  all  this 
while  —  Richard,  whom  she  loved  better  than  any  other. 

"  Is  Samson  in  England  again?  " 

"Yes.  In  hospital.  Trench  feet.  David  told  me.  Said 
that  Uncle  Otto  still  wants  him  for  Nell.  Somebody  English 
in  the  family,  to  grab  on  to." 


314  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

" Oh  —  Uncle  Otto!  "     Deb's  tone  rang  scornfully. 

"  Yes  —  I  used  to  laugh  at  him,  too.  I  don't  now.  We  — 
■we  come  down  to  that,  Deb,  when  we're  in  a  panic." 

"  Was  that  what  you  meant,  what  you  hoped,  when  you  told 
me  I  must  marry  Samson?     Somebody  to  grab  on  to?  " 

Richard  nodded.  "  Yes.  But  never  mind.  You  don't  care 
enough  for  him,  do  you?  " 

"  How  could  he  help  you?  " 

"  He's  solid  English  through  and  through;  have  you  noticed 
how  people  imagine  that  every  Jew  must  be  a  German  —  or 
every  German  a  Jew  —  I  forget  which.  But  Phillips'  cousin 
is  Sir  Ephraim  Phillips;  David  seemed  to  think  he  was  going 
to  "be  useful  over  Furth,  get  a  permit  for  Hedda  to  see  him 
oftener  —  only  David  says  Hedda  doesn't  want  to.  If  he  were 
to  vouch  for  me,  perhaps  —  they  listen  to  a  man  who  has  en- 
listed from  the  very  beginning,  and  got  the  M.  C."  A  long 
pause  .  .  .  and  then  Richard  whispered  under  his  breath,  with 
the  reverence  of  a  pilgrim  who  speaks  of  his  Mecca:  "  He 
might  perhaps  have  got  me  into  the  trenches.  .  .  ." 

Presently  he  jerked  out,  in  his  roughest  manner:  "Look 
here.  Deb,  old  girl  —  forget  all  this.  Perfect  rot,  really. 
Don't  suppose  he  could  do  anything  —  much.  I  was  simply 
mooching  about  —  and  —  and  a  poster  or  something  got  on  my 
nerves  and  sent  me  pelting  down  here.  I  wouldn't  for  worlds 
have  you  bother  about  Phillips  when  you're  not  keen  on  him. 
Not  fair  on  him,  either." 

"  I  was  wondering  how  you  guessed,  that's  all  .  .  ."  Deb's 
head  was  turned  away  from  him;  he  stared  incredulously  at  the 
wavy  black  mop  of  hair  —  what  had  she  done  to  her  hair?  .  .  . 

"Guessed?" 

"  That  —  I  made  such  a  fool  of  myself.  .  .  .  Oh,  Richard ! 
that  I  chucked  away  everything  last  year  —  just  for  a  bit  of 
fun." 

"  When  you  put  him  off  by  —  Deb,  you  —  you're  not  bluff- 
ing? you've  cared  all  this  while?  " 

"Yes.  .  .  .  And  now  you  tell  me  he's  back,  I  wonder  if  I 
could  put  things  right  again  —  I  do  wonder.  .  .  ." 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  315 

"  But  you  told  me  at  the  time  that  you  were  laughing, 
pulling  his  leg  .  .  ."•  Richard  hardly  dared  believe  in  this 
secret  of  his  sister's  which  synchronized  so  marvellously  with 
his  own  petition. 

She  stamped  a  petulant  foot  at  him.  "  I  was  laughing  — 
because  I  was  too  ashamed  to  own  up  that  I'd  hurt  myself  by 
teasing  him  with  that  idiot  lie  of  mine  about  Cliffe.  I  thought 
you  would  have  guessed  —  I  thought  you  had  guessed,  when 
you  first  lugged  in  Samson's  name,  and  were  only  pretending 
that  bit  about  Uncle  Otto  and  yourself  and  influence,  for  —  for 
cover;  to  cover  me.  I  thought  it  was  so  nice  of  you.  Rich- 
ard " —  she  walked  straight  up  to  him,  and  put  her  arms  round 
his  neck,  looking  steadily  at  his  eyes,  those  sombre,  tortured 
eyes  which  were  beginning  already  to  lighten  hopefully  and 
lose  some  of  their  strain — "Richard,  own  up;  it  was  that, 
wasn't  it?  " 

Play-acting.  But  she  had  done  it  so  long  and  inconse- 
quently  and  for  no  one's  sake  at  all,  surely  now  she  was 
justified  in  play-acting  to  the  tip  of  her  powers,  at  Richard, 
and  for  Richard's  sake.  .  .  . 

"Wasn't  it?" 

"No.  No,  Deb.  It  was  sheer  selfishness.  But  if  you 
can  ...  if  you  honestly  do  love  him.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  V 


DEB,  before  Richard  came  to  her,  was  afflicted  with  the 
hump.  A  sort  of  diffused  hump.  The  hump  of  all  the 
world.     The  hump  that  says:     "What's  the  good?" 

and  "It  isn't  fair!  "  and  "I  wish "  and  "Everything's  so 

hateful!  "  It  arose  from  a  blurred  medley  of  causes:  the  dry 
heat  which  seemed  to  spring  from  the  pavements  and  sap  all 
vitality.  Then  Con's  death;  Con  had  been  her  first  love,  and 
his  death  stabbed  her  with  a  quick  and  poignant  memory  of 
eight  years  ago  when  they  had  nuzzled  each  other  like  two 
affectionate  and  sportive  young  foals  — "  dear  little  Deb." 
"  Con  —  I  do  love  you.  Con !  "  "  For  always,  Deb  ?  "  "  Yes, 
for  —  I  say,  look  how  the  conkers  are  bumping  down  in  this 
wind  .  .  .  let's  collect  them  and  have  a  battle,  shall  we?  " 
"Rather!  "  and  the  headlong  scamper  of  boy  and  girl  up  the 
hill  towards  the  group  of  tattered,  wind-buffeted  chestnuts. 
Such  glorious  fun,  collecting  into  your  own  separate  pile  the 
vivid  russet  pebbles  that  every  fresh  gust  thudded  and  bounced 
on  to  the  grass;  or  even,  while  you  knelt  and  scrambled,  on  to 
the  flat  of  your  back.  Such  fun,  sweeping  aside  the  drifts  of 
mottled  yellow  leaves  to  discover  where  they  hid.  Such  fun, 
to  shout  aloud  to  Con  a  find  of  the  embedded  conker,  red  and 
plump  and  shining  in  its  dull  white  pillow  and  prickly  burr. 
Such  fun,  the  after  battle,  swooping  to  gather  fresh  handfuls 
from  your  accumulated  store  of  ammunition.  She  could  be 
quite  sure,  always,  that  Con  would  never  direct  his  bullets  to 
hit  her  anywhere  except  in  places  that  didn't  hurt.  Con  was 
a  dear  .  .  .  and  never  such  a  dear  as  on  that  wind-rushed, 
sun-flashing   afternoon   in   October,   when   the   Battle   of  the 

316 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  317 

Conkers  having  been  decided  in  her  favour,  they  flung  them- 
selves down  on  the  dry  protesting  rustle  of  the  dead-leaf 
carpet,  flushed  and  tingling  and  ever  so  pleased  with  them- 
selves; the  clouds  swirling  apart  over  their  heads  to  show  such 
vivid  rollicking  patches  of  blue.  "  Deb,  darling  —  will  — 
will  you  let  me  kiss  you  just  once?  "  "No,  Con  —  please  — 
I  don't  think  you  ought.  .  .  ." 

Well,  Con  was  dead.  But  that  memory  was  more  excellent 
to  look  back  upon,  than  the  long,  slow-moving  hours  spent  with 
Blair  Stevenson  in  his  rooms.  .  .  . 

It  was  not  Blair's  fault.  She  recognized  that.  He  was  al- 
ways charming,  always  interesting,  even  whimsically  fond  of 
his  demi-maid.  He  was  a  great  deal  better  than  she  deserved, 
really.     Only  —  only 

"I'm  sick  of  it!  "  with  a  spurt  of  impetuous  dissatisfaction. 
Sick  of  it,  and  did  not  know  how  to  wriggle  clear  of  it.  Per- 
haps the  Foreign  Office  would  soon  send  him  abroad  again. 
Deb  was  prone  to  hang  about,  hoping  for  some  lucky  mechani- 
cal chance  to  terminate  her  mistakes,  rather  than  herself  make 
abrupt  severance.  Stevenson  was  indeed  sent  on  an  important 
mission  to  America  that  July  of  1916.  And  Deb  did  not  alto- 
gether like  that  either.  She  missed  him.  He  was,  at  least, 
aware  of  her.  The  old  dejected  sensation  of  waste  enveloped 
her  again. 

The  endless  procession  of  khaki  spectres  through  the  great 
dim  stations,  on  their  way  to  the  Front,  wound  like  a  drab  cat- 
erpillar through  her  days  and  nights.  She  had  loved  being  on 
duty  at  the  canteen  when  the  leave  trains  came  in;  but  this  new 
job  was  different  —  it  was  horrible.  They  were  sucked  back 
to  the  Front  where  Con  had  been  killed.  And  the  world  was 
left  full  of  women  —  women  and  girls  and  old  women.  The 
world  was  rather  like  that  great  dim  station,  with  hollow  sounds 
clanging  and  echoing  far  up  in  the  roof,  and  trains  that  came 
in  and  trains  that  went  out,  nobody  quite  knew  when;  and  wait- 
ing, drearily,  up  and  down  the  platform;  and  an  old,  old  time^ 
table  that  offered  no  guidance  in  this  later  chaos,  flapping  from 
the  walls.  .  .  , 


318  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

What  guidance  was  there,  moral  or  religious  or  traditional? 
Women  took  their  cues  and  rules  from  one  another,  propped 
one  another  up  by  new  and  hastily-made  standards;  pointed 
out  solitary  examples  —  solitary  pioneers.  Dimly-lit  melan- 
choly world  of  women,  invertebrate  at  first,  learning  how  to 
walk  and  run,  learning  how  to  do  without  their  men.  Bits  of  a 
new  code,  and  bits  of  an  old  tradition.  A  great  deal  of  talk 
.  .  .  women's  voices.  .  .  . 

Women,  and  women,  and  women.  One  got  nauseated  by 
one's  own  sex.  They  did  their  best  —  they  did  splendidly  — 
but  oh,  the  man's  deeper,  calmer  note,  and  more  logical  author- 
ity, and  firm  hand  outstretched! 

The  home  with  La  llorraine  and  Manon  was  hardly  as  satis- 
factory as  it  had  seemed.  The  ingenue  engaged,  required  kick- 
ing—  not  from  jealousy,  but  because  of  her  demeanour  which 
implied  that  everything  good  comes  to  the  good  girl.  And 
Dolph  Carew,  whom  Deb  hated,  was  always  in  the  flat.  Wed- 
ding preparations  were  in  full  swing.  And  La  llorraine,  the 
sails  of  her  content  wide  and  voluptuously  full  with  a  fair  wind, 
treated  Deb  in  the  confidential  manner  of  one  battered  old 
rouette  to  another  —  inviting  her  perpetually  to  look  and  re- 
joice at  the  spectacle  of  the  two  innocent  young  things  so  happy. 
"You  and  I,  my  dee-urr,  have  long  since  outgrown  such  milk 
and  roses."  ...  It  galled  Deb,  not  unreasonably,  to  be  identi- 
fied with  La  llorraine  as  a  rouette  of  fifty  years  ago.  Manon 
was  to  marry  Dolph  Carew  .  .  .  inevitably  Deb's  thoughts 
drifted  back  to  Jenny  —  lingered  there  ...  all  that  wish  and 
desire  and  beat  for  life  wasted  .  .  .  and  that  charming  little 
face,  mournful  or  roguish  as  a  monkey's.  "  But  Bobby's  left; 
Bobby  with  the  same  crinkle  in  his  eyes  and  mouth  and  heart. 
...  If  I  were  to  die,  wanting  things  like  Jenny  did,  there  would 
not  even  be  Bobby  to  remind  people.  .  .  ." 

Yes  —  she  had  the  hump.  The  hump  of  all  the  world.  And 
then  Richard  came. 

At  once  life  lost  its  sullen  taste;  and  was  sharp  with  the 
savour  of  brine.  Something  to  do  —  and  that  not  too  easy. 
Something  to  be  won  —  and  that  not  for  herself,  but  for  Rich- 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  310 

ard.  Something  to  sacrifice  —  and  that  was  contemplation  of 
the  future;  fatal  to  brood  upon  a  future  inhabited  principally 
by  Phillipses.  Something  here  which  demanded  subtle  manip- 
ulation, probably  histrionics  .  .  .  but  this  was  Deb's  talent. 
She  set  out  to  re-conquer  Samson  Phillips  in  a  spirit  which 
was  brewed  in  equal  parts  of  roguery  and  swagger  and  trepida- 
tion. Could  she  or  could  she  not  obliterate  her  senseless  fib 
of  last  autumn?  It  all  depended,  really,  on  how  much  Samson 
cared  for  her,  and  of  what  enduring  fibre  was  his  passion.  And 
here  Deb  had  confidence;  she  could  not  forget  that  he  had  asked 
her  to  marry  him  —  so  few  men  had  asked  her  that,  down  all 
that  long,  dusty  highway  speckled  with  men.  .  .  . 

"  If  it  can  be  wangled,  it  shall  be  wangled,"  she  promised 
Richard  in  her  heart.  She  was  not  very  considerate  of  Samson 
in  the  matter;  but  you  cannot  be  too  scrupulous  of  one  man 
when  you  wish  supremely  to  serve  another. 

From  Nell  Redbury  she  obtain  Captain  Phillips'  temporary 
address,  and  also  the  exact  ailment  from  which  he  was  sufi^er- 
ing.  It  would  not  do  to  make  a  mistake  in  that.  Then  she 
composed  a  letter  that  in  its  simple  idiocy  and  clear  grasp  of 
Samson's  psychology,  was  quite  a  little  masterpiece  of  guile: 

"Dear  Captain  Phillips, 

"  I  hear  that  you  are  back  again  and  in  hospital, 
with  trench-feet.  I'm  so  very  sorry.  Though  I'm  afraid  you 
won't  care  much  if  I'm  sorry  or  not.  And  yet  —  this  letter  is 
really  to  ask  if  you'll  let  me  come  and  see  you,  just  once?  Of 
course,  I  know  it's  my  fault  that  we're  not  good  friends.  But 
please,  please  don't  snub  me.  It  does  hurt  so  to  be  snubbed. 
Is  tliere  anything  special  you  would  like  me  to  bring  you,  in 
case  you  say  I  may  come?  Flowers  I  know  you  love  best,  but 
flowers  are  nicest  when  they  are  wild  in  the  fields,  aren't  they? 
I  wish  you  could  have  seen  our  little  brook  near  Market  St. 
Bryan  last  month;  its  banks  were  a  blue  heaven  of  forget-me- 
nots.     Do  you  ever  think  about  it,  I  wonder? 

"  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"Deb  Marcus." 


320  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

She  re-read  this  epistle,  and  crossed  out  the  last  sentence. 
"It  won't  do  to  frighten  him;  I  wish  I  could  work  in  a  little 
old-world  touch  of  dignity."  She  mused;  then  unable  to  sup- 
ply this,  sent  it  off  as  it  was. 

She  had  not  miscalculated  the  durance  of  Samson's  affection. 
He  was  a  stubborn  man,  and  he  had  deliberately  selected  Deb. 
Deb  had  dealt  his  sense  of  righteousness  a  hard  buffet;  but 
he  had  not  succeeded  in  forgetting  her.  Her  letter  struck  ex- 
actly the  right  note  —  diffident  yet  impetuous;  just  the  same 
dear,  warm-hearted,  half-shy,  half-wild  little  girl  .  .  .  surely 
she  must  have  been  led  astray  by  some  scoundrel.  After  all, 
she  had  been  honest  at  the  time;  honest  enough  to  forfeit  his 
regard  and  all  it  entailed,  by  that  confession  of  her  sin.  The 
sin  could  not  be  minimized  —  but  here  she  was,  obviously  pen- 
itent —  he  could  not  resist  the  delicious  act  of  magnanimity. 

So  he  replied  stiffly,  saying  he  would  be  delighted  if  she  were 
to  pay  him  a  visit  at  the  hospital  between  three  and  four  on 
the  following  Wednesday.  He  had  made  arrangements  with 
his  sister-in-law,  Nell  Redbury,  to  be  present.  .  .  . 

This  last,  with  that  insistence  on  a  rigorous  and  formal 
respect  necessary  in  such  painful  cases  where  respect  could 
not  any  more  be  taken  for  granted  as  the  lady's  due. 

Deb  smiled  when  she  received  it.  "  Nell  can  easily  be 
shunted.  Is  white  muslin  too  obvious?  I  s'pose  so.  It  had 
better  be  my  spotted  pink,  which  is  a  bad  fit.  And  the  Leghorn 
hat  with  the  spray  of  Alexandra  roses  that  doesn't  match  the 
dress.  Surely  no  girl  would  wear  two  mouldy  shades  of  pink 
unless  she  were  a  reformed  character.  Good  Lord!  my  hair! 
How  am  I  to  account  for  it?  " 

She  fingered  a  temptation  to  dare  the  risk  of  winning  him 
back  by  means  he  most  disapproved  of  —  peacock  and  gold 
jumper  of  the  wickedest  cut;  conversation  to  match,  all  a-flicker 
with  brilliant  unconventionality;  the  siren  method?  It  would 
be  infinitely  more  fun;  and  a  personal  triumph  if  she  suc- 
ceeded. 

But  no.  Richard's  peace  of  mind  hung  on  the  issue;  she 
must  take  the  safest  way. 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  321 

II 

Ten  days  later,  Samson  for  the  fourth  time  proposed  to  her. 
She  accepted  him. 

After  the  first  interview,  it  was  easy.  She  had  only  to  be 
passive;  or  to  smooth  down  any  little  creases  in  her  texture 
that  she  perceived  could  still  cause  him  uneasiness.  That  first 
interview  was  her  greatest  performance.  She  blended  timid 
womanly  solicitude  with  that  type  of  earnest  frankness  in  big 
and  little  things,  which  was  to  be  interpreted  —  by  him  —  as 
the  outcome  of  an  inner  consciousness  of  once  having  failed 
greatly  in  moral  steadfastness  and  the  resolve  never  again  to  be 
betrayed  into  so  doing.  She  thought  his  intelligence  could  be 
trusted  to  perceive  that  much  subtlety,  unaided.  He  did  per- 
ceive it.  And  approved.  He  approved  also  of  her  confusion 
at  his  jocular  reference  to  the  forget-me-not  stream.  "  Don't 
tell  me  you  went  down  there  alone  to  pick  forget-me-nots?  " 

"  Oh,  but  I  did.     I  wouldn't "  she  stopped.     And  hastily 

asked  him  how  he  liked  his  tea.  "  Wouldn't  go  with  any  other 
man."  .  .  .  Samson  smiled  under  his  moustache.  So  that  spe- 
cial glide  of  silver  beneath  the  plank  bridge,  had  associations 
for  her,  too.  Good!  he  liked  sentiment  in  girls.  He  was  a 
sentimental  chap  himself,  but  in  his  case  it  was  sheathed  in 
sternness.  He  was  a  soldier  —  and  she  was  a  sinner.  .  .  . 
Never  let  him  forget  that. 

She  never  let  him  forget  it.  Not  once  in  the  prescribed  hour. 
Intuition  pointed  out  that  it  was  labour  lost  to  try  and  make 
him  forget.     Therefore  he  must  be  brought  to  forgive. 

"So  Delilah  has  been  shorn  instead  of  Samson?  That's 
poetic  justice,  isn't  it?"  Then,  chaffing  no  more:  "What 
made  you  cut  your  hair.  Deb?  I  don't  like  it.  It's  like  those 
artist-model  girls  you  see  about.  I  hoped  you'd  go  on  arrang- 
ing it  the  way  Beattie  did  it  for  you,  once.     It  suited  you." 

"  But  it  took  so  long,"  Deb  explained.  And  further,  in  an 
outburst  of  confidence:  "It  was  stupid  of  me  —  I'm  sorry 
now.  But  —  it  was  just  a  mood  —  one  evening,  when  I  had  to 
dash  off  to  the  canteen  —  and  it  would  keep  on  flopping  down 


322  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

after  I'd  pinned  it  up  .  .  .  and  it  seemed  to  me  there  was  so 
much  to  do  in  the  world  just  now,  besides  one's  hair  —  so 
much  to  do  and  so  little  time  to  do  it  in  —  And  ...  oh,  I 
lost  my  temper  with  and  just  sheared  it  off.  Does  it  look 
hideous?  " 

He  studied  her  in  silence.  And  his  face  turned  red  and  his 
eyes  slowly  kindled.  .  .  . 

"  Not  that  it  matters.  Vanity  is  rather  futile  since  the  war, 
isn't  it?     But  one  can't  help  minding  being  a  fright.  .  .  ." 

"  You're  not  a  fright,  little  girl,"  said  Samson  Phillips. 

And  then  Nell  slipped  back  inconspicuously  into  the  room, 
and  said  it  was  time  to  go. 

Otto  Redbury  had  rubbed  his  hands  with  pleasure  when 
Samson,  via  Beatrice,  had  made  known  his  wish  for  Nell's  at- 
tendance at  the  hospital  between  three  and  four  on  Wednesday 
afternoon. 

"So!  it  gomes  to  something,  then!  "  and  he  inspected  Nell 
before  her  departure,  and  gave  her  five  shillings  for  a  taxi, 
that  she  might  arrive  unhealed  and  unruffled.  The  taxi  had 
stopped  at  La  llorraine's,  to  pick  up  Deb,  but  this  Otto  did  not 
know.  Deb  was  very  glad  to  arrive  at  the  hospital  unhealed 
and  unruffled.  And  Nell  was  very  glad  to  spend  the  stray  half- 
hour  walking  beside  Timothy,  whom  Deb  had  notified  to  be 
accidentally  outside  the  gates  at  that  hour  of  the  day.  This 
Otto  did  not  know  either.  Not  that  he  could  have  gained 
much  by  prying  on  their  dialogue,  for  the  pair  were  still  in 
that  stage  of  dreamy  ecstasy  which  prefers  not  to  speak,  in  addi- 
tion to  their  handicap  of  excessive  shyness. 

"  Soon,  zere  vill  be  a  vedding  at  the  Synagogue,"  Otto 
prophesied  to  Trudchen.  But  Trudchen,  who  had  lost  one  of 
her  boys,  had  no  happiness  for  the  moment  in  either  of  her 
girls. 

Otto  was  right  in  form  but  not  in  detail.  A  wedding  did 
indeed  take  place  on  October  the  12th,  and  Nell  was  brides- 
maid; and  the  bride  was  given  away  by  her  father;  and  Otto 
for  the  look  of  things  had  to  be  coaxed  out  of  the  bathroom 
by  his  united  family,  and  coaxed  into  a  frock-coat,  and  coaxed 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  323 

into  attendance  as  a  guest.  Otto's  soul  was  very  bilious,  and 
he  objected  to  paying  for  a  present,  and  made  several  quite 
snappy  and  spiteful  remarks  concerning  the  folly  of  men  who 
married  a  girl  whose  certificate  of  chastity  bore  a  black  mark 
and  the  scrawled  name  of  Mr.  Cliffe  Kennedy.  .  .  . 

"Ach,  Otto!" 

Samson  was  aware  of  the  enormity  of  such  a  choice.  Aware, 
too,  that  he  would  have  great  difficulty  with  his  family,  who 
were  still  huffy  with  Deb  for  having  dared  to  refuse  Samson 
on  three  previous  occasions.  So  he  did  an  unprecedented  thing 
—  he  proposed  first,  and  consulted  his  family  afterwards.  Per- 
haps "  proposed  "  is  not  the  term  which  exactly  sets  forth  his 
proceedings.  He  announced  to  Deb  that  he  was  willing  to 
make  her  his  wife  —  nay,  that  he  considered  it  his  duty  to  draw 
her  from  the  gutter  back  to  the  pavement.  Deb  —  who  in  spite 
of  some  deep  inner  scoldings  that  she  was  again  behaving  dis- 
gracefully towards  Samson,  and  this  time  worse  even  than  be- 
fore —  Deb  stood  before  him  with  eyes  downcast  and  folded 
hands,  meek  and  wan  —  and  wildly  exhilarated  by  her  success. 
She  had,  to  quote  La  llorraine:  "Made  a  muff  from  her 
chances  "  so  often  and  so  disastrously  that  a  great  deal  of  pre- 
vious anxiety  was  inevitable.  Anxiety  was  now  allayed.  She 
stood  before  her  master,  meek  and  wan,  and  exceedingly  desir- 
able: Israelite  maiden  in  the  slave-market.  .  .  .  Samson  kissed 
her  very  carefully  to  show  that  his  respect  had  suffered  no  di- 
minishment.  (He  was  so  continually  showing  her  this  in  all 
sorts  of  unobtrusive  ways  that  Deb  only  now  realized  to  what 
extent  her  lie  of  last  year  had  earned  his  undying  censure.) 
Samson  kissed  her  carefully  —  and  said,  "  My  family  will  be 
pleased  about  this.  Deb." 

For  which  she  rather  liked  him. 

The  family,  of  course,  reminded  him  in  an  appalled  chorus 
that  Deb  was  —  somewhat  disreputable.  Had  she  not  run 
away  from  home,  to  live  with  that  opera-woman?  Samson 
replied  inflexibly  that  they,  by  their  contempt  and  reproach, 
might  be  responsible  for  driving  a  poor  little  girl  to  worse 
things. 


324  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  What  worse  things  are  there?  "  his  grandmother  demanded, 
for  the  rest  of  them. 

Samson  merely  shrugged;  and  opposition  perceived  that  the 
eldest  son  of  the  house  of  Phillips  had  chosen,  and  would  not 
be  swerved  from  his  choice.  His  glucose  fidelity  was  impres- 
sive. Samson  was  the  Phillips'  fetish,  and  Samson's  wish  the 
Phillips'  law.  Moreover,  there  remained  still  the  Phillips'  illu- 
sion that  Deb  had  always  loved  Samson,  had  loved  him  all 
through  his  three  proposals  last  Autumn,  and  must  —  poor 
child  —  have  suffered  terribly,  refusing  him.  Certainly  she  de- 
served to  suffer.  But  by  this  chance  of  making  Samson  happy, 
she  might  expiate  her  foolishness,  and  expiate  it  still  more  in 
giving  Samson  a  fine  healthy  son.  ...  So  the  many  counsels 
in  the  dining-room  of  Mrs.  Phillips  resolved  at  last  on  a  pro- 
gram of  bounteous  welcome,  forgive  and  forget. 

Deb,  foreseeing  complications,  made  more  than  one  faltering 
attempt  to  explain  privately  to  her  fiance  exactly  how  the  quaint 
mistake  about  her  premature  initiation  had  occurred.  .  .  .  But 
it  was  an  impossible  task.  At  each  successive  essay,  Samson 
interrupted  at  the  very  start  and  in  his  well-known  style:  "  I 
don't  want  to  hear  a  word  about  it.  Deb.  It's  all  over  and  it's 
all  forgotten.  Let's  turn  over  a  fresh  leaf  and  agree  never  to 
mention  it  again.  I  love  you,  and  you  know  it,  and  nothing 
makes  any  difference,  and  I  simply  don't  want  to  hear  another 
word  about  it." 

So  she  gave  in.  She  was  the  flame,  he  was  the  extinguisher 
that  stands  beside  the  candle.  However  ardent  her  whim  to 
burn,  he  could  always  put  her  out. 

Ferdie  Marcus  was  enraptured  at  the  betrothal.  It  was 
what  he  had  always  desired  for  his  little  daughter  —  every  one 
was  prefixing  Deb  with  "  little"  just  now  —  a  good  protector; 
a  Jew;  a  husband  in  a  solid  position,  both  financially  and  — 
nowadays  this  was  important  —  in  point  of  nationality.  He 
would  never  be  quite  healed  of  the  unlooked-for  wound  dealt 
him  by  this  same  little  daughter,  last  year;  and  he  was  rather 
puzzled  as  to  how  that  affair  had  been  glossed  over  where 
Samson  was  concerned.     Did  Samson  know?     But  he  hid  both 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  325 

the  scar  and  the  perplexity;  and  without  any  formal  reconcilia- 
tion, it  was  understood  that  she  had  slipped  into  re-occupation 
of  her  old  place  in  the  home  —  home  in  the  abstract  and  not 
literal  sense;  for  she  did  not  return  to  live  at  Montagu  Hall. 
Neither  Grandfather  nor  Aunt  Stella  were  sufficiently  cordial 
at  the  prospect;  and  Samson  did  not  care  either  about  the 
boarding-house.  For  the  present  he  made  special  arrangement 
that  she  should  stay  with  the  Redburys  —  Beattie  and  Hardy. 
She  should  be  married  from  his  mother's  house,  and  as  he  was 
to  be  discharged  from  hospital  in  a  month's  time,  the  wedding 
could  quite  well  be  arranged  for  October.  In  fact  ("  I'm  a 
sentimental  chap!  ")  he  asked  Deb,  with  a  twinkle  of  meaning 
in  his  eye,  whether  October  the  12th  would  suit  her?  Just  in 
time  to  prevent  her  features  from  slipping  into  utter  blankness, 
she  remembered  that  this  might  be  the  anniversary  of  the  sil- 
very-stream business,  and  replied  with  a  pretty  smile,  that  she 
thought  October  the  12th  would  be  .  .  .  nice. 

"  Will  there  be  time  to  let  your  hair  grow  before  then?  " 
he  teased  her.     "  We  can't  have  a  bride  with  short  hair.  .  .  ." 

The  whole  Phillips  family  had  pounced,  jabbering  and 
shrieking  and  with  white  teeth  all  aflash  in  their  olive  faces,  on 
the  discovery  that  Delilah  and  not  Samson  had  been  shorn. 
Deb  was  prepared  for  this,  and  constant  repetition  of  the  joke 
did  not  afflict  her  in  the  measure  of  last  year.  The  Phillips 
were  themselves  a  joke,  and  her  engagement,  and  Samson,  and 
Otto  Redbury  sulking  in  the  bathroom  on  the  occasion  of  her 
formal  visit  on  the  arm  of  her  fiance;  and  the  fact  that  she 
must  ostentatiously  refuse  ever  to  meet  Cliffe  Kennedy  again 
...  all  a  joke!  That  was  her  mood,  and  it  was  not  once 
interpierced.  She  saw  very  little  of  her  old  set  during  her 
engagement  —  very  little  of  Gillian  and  Antonia  and  Zoe.  All 
that  had  dropped  away  like  a  whirl  of  sparks  in  the  forgotten 
night. 

The  sense  of  a  hilarious  joke  followed  her  to  the  very  porch 
of  the  Synagogue,  pursued  her  through  the  ceremony,  with  its 
gabble  of  Hebrew  and  wonderful  song.  It  prodded  her  mid- 
way in  the  fatherly  old  Rabbi's  personal  benediction,  when  he 


326  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

solemnly  addressed  Samson  in  these  terms:  "  You  are  bearing 
away  to  a  typically  Jewish  home  a  typically  Jewish  treasure. 
.  .  ."  Deb  felt  irresistibly  impelled  to  drop  her  eyelids  and 
murmur  deprecatingly :  "  Oh,  no  .  .  ."  and  Samson  patted  her 
arm  reassuringly.  .  .  . 

And  then  the  joke  faded  .  .  .  for  the  old  man  spoke  directly 
to  her,  and  made  her  feel  suddenly  that  at  last  she  belonged; 
that  this  was  her  faith,  and  these  her  people;  and  that  standing 
here  under  the  white  canopy,  she  was  really  fulfilling  her  des- 
tiny at  last  —  the  destiny  for  which  Deb  Marcus  had  been  pri- 
marily shaped  and  intended.  After  all,  she  had  not  been  able 
to  achieve  free  adventure  —  and  compromise  was  a  poor  sub- 
stitute. It  was  kind  of  Jehovah  to  have  guided  her  from 
debatable  ground  to  safety. 

And  she  would  cease  from  baffling  and  bamboozling  Samson, 
who  was  high-principled  and  faithful.  What  had  she  made  out 
of  her  loose-jointed  set  of  values,  to  enable  her  to  scoff  at  his? 
Deb  was  now  full  to  the  brim  of  her  being  with  contrition  and 
clear  sweetness  and  gratitude.  ...  A  few  yards  away  Ferdie 
was  beaming  happily  —  Dear  old  dad  —  and  she  had  been  such 
a  beast,  blaming  him  for  all  her  own  freakish  behaviour.  And 
there  was  Richard,  scowling  a  little  self-consciously  in  his  en- 
deavour to  appear  absolutely  at  ease  —  all  Samson's  brothers 
were  already  married  and  ineligible  for  the  office  of  best  man, 
which  devolved  therefore  upon  Richard  .  .  .  brows  hunched 
over  eyes  that  were  wonderfully  at  peace.  Six  weeks  ago,  he 
had  looked  like  a  man  of  thirty;  now  he  looked  what  he  was  — 
a  sturdy  well-blocked-out  pugnacious  youngster  of  seventeen. 
It  was  all  right  —  Deb  had  spoken  to  Samson  about  him,  and 
Samson  had  spoken  to  his  cousin  Sir  Ephraim  Phillips,  who 
had  promised  when  the  time  of  internment  drew  actually  near, 
to  interest  himself,  not  only  to  the  extent  of  (certainly)  getting 
Richard  off,  but  furthermore  to  get  him  (perhaps)  into  the 
fighting  line  somewhere.  So  Richard's  state  was  that  of  a 
parched  creature  who  had  sighted  water  to  slake  his  thirst.  .  .  . 

All  the  same,  it  was  no  joke  being  responsible  for  the  ring 
and  the  fees  —  and  the  carriages  and  —  and  half-a-dozen  other 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  327 

things.  It  rendered  a  properly  nonchalant  bearing  impossible. 
And  he  had  made  a  bad  beginning  by  the  reverent  removal 
of  a  sleek  silk  hat  from  a  sleek  bullet  head,  directly  on  en- 
trance .  .  .  five  bearded  gentlemen  draped  in  black  had  made 
a  rush  at  him  and  besought  him  to  replace  his  hat  upon  his 
head. 

His  eyes  met  his  sister's  in  a  swift  comprehending  glance. 
"  Sure  it's  all  right,  Deb  —  for  you,  I  mean?  "  "  Quite,  quite 
sure,  old  boy!  "  the  unspoken  question  and  answer  between 
them. 

The  glass  was  set  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Samson's  foot,  and 
he  ground  it  vindictively  into  powder.  His  mother  at  the  re- 
ception afterwards,  called  all  her  friends  and  relatives  to  bear 
witness  with  what  spirit  he  had  performed  this  part  of  the 
ritual.  It  was  fortunate  that  she  did  not  overhear  David  Red- 
bury's  remark  to  the  effect  that  Samson  had  not  only  used  all 
the  energy  which  his  great  prototype  had  expended  on  the 
pillars  of  the  temple,  to  crush  one  small  wine-glass;  but  had 
then  further  deviated  from  Biblical  history  by  inviting  the 
Philistines  home  with  him  to  champagne  and  iced  cake.  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  hush,  David!  "  from  Nell. 

"  Well  —  look  at  us !  "  Israel  was  indeed  enormously  repre- 
sented. The  rooms  glimmered  and  glittered  with  the  clan 
Phillips.  Already  they  owned  Deb  ("  little  Deb  ") ;  swarmed 
about  her  in  heavy,  jocular  proprietorship;  bore  her  triiunph- 
antly  away  to  be  robed  for  the  honeymoon  journey. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Samson  Phillips  left  at  4.30,  en  route  for 
Torquay. 

*'  Why  did  you  ever  tell  me  that  falsehood?  " 

"I  —  I  don't  know,  Samson.     What  falsehood?  " 

"  You  do  know.  Deb." 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  told  it,  Samson." 

"  You've  always  been  a  good  girl."  It  was  a  statement,  not 
a  query.     A  statement  weighted  with  perplexity. 

And:  "Yes  .  .  ."  she  assented,  "I've  always  been  a  good 
girl." 


328  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

He  was  not  so  joyfully  illuminated  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected. Indeed,  he  was  conscious  of  being  defrauded  of  an 
essential  occupation.  He  had  married  Deb,  forgiving  her. 
He  had  meant  to  go  on  forgiving  her.  He  would  never  stop 
forgiving  her.  Now,  in  place  of  these  anticipations,  was  a 
vacuum.  ... 


PART   IV 


CHAPTER   I 

NELL  and  Timothy  lay  among  thick  buttercups.  Here 
and  there  the  shimmering,  glazed  yellow  lifted  to  cir- 
cles of  pale  cowslips.  Nell's  russet  silk  jersey  was  a 
splash  of  deeper  colour  in  all  the  gold;  the  spilt  pollen  trem- 
bled on  her  loosened  plaits  of  hair,  the  lustreless  heavy  brown 
of  water  densely  overhung.  Timothy  thought  he  had  never 
seen  any  one  more  beautiful  .  .  .  and  he  was  flying  over  to 
France  the  next  day. 

«  Nell " 

"  Wait  a  minute,  Tim.  .  .  .  I'm  thinking."  She  dared  order 
him  to  wait,  this  fair  young  hero  of  hers.  Because  she  had 
learnt  to  believe,  through  a  year  of  wonder,  and  hesitation, 
and  ignorance  shaken  into  discernment,  that  he  was  indeed 
hers.  And  with  belief  came  power  —  oh,  what  strange  new 
power  in  her  deep  look  .  .  .  young  Nell  knew  everything  now 
—  all  about  feelings  and  life  and  colour  .  .  .  she  knew  what 
feelings  were  when  Timothy's  hand  lay  on  her  bare  arm;  and 
life  was  —  Oh,  but  she  mustn't  tell  .  .  .  not  yet  .  .  .  you 
wouldn't  understand,  because  it's  all  got  to  do  with  Timothy. 
And  colour  was  what  happened  to  Timothy  if  near  to  him  she 
stirred  or  brushed  his  khaki  sleeve.  .  .  . 

She  lay  on  her  back  among  the  buttercups;  staring  into  the 
sky,  and  thinking. 

"  You  see,"  at  last,  "  it's  such  a  Great  Responsibility." 

He  nodded,  and  echoed  her  phrase:  "  Yes  —  it's  No  End  of 
a  Responsibility!  " 

He  said  this  whenever  they  discussed  the  subject,  and  with  a 
more  profound  air  of  worry  each  time.  And  they  had  dis- 
cussed it  so  often.  That  New  Generation!  it  really  gave  a 
fellow  a  terrific  lot  to  think  about. 

"  It  isn't  as  if  it  were  just  you  and  me,  Tim.    That  would  be 

331 


332  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

so  easy  to  settle.  But  —  it's  all  the  others.  Just  think,  Tim- 
othy, how  many  are  being  beaten  down  to  be  miserable  just 
because  they  dare  not  walk  away,  be  happy  —  like  Gillian!  " 

"  It's  awful !  "  Timothy's  eyes  were  round  and  solemn. 
.  .  .  He  was  not  frightfully  keen  on  the  New  Generation.  Had 
he  been  a  rollicking  youngster,  he  would  have  puffed  it  away 
in  a  laugh.  But  he  followed  laboriously  where  Nell  led  .  .  . 
and  thus  got  his  answer,  from  the  lips  of  the  acolyte  and  the 
disciple,  to  the  question  he  had  once  put  to  Blair  Stevenson; 
"Yes,  but  what's  it  all  about?  What  are  they  up  to,  these 
girls?  " 

"Look  here,  Nell.  ...  I  do  so  want  to  —  to  marry  you. 
I've  told  you  billions  of  times.  Darling  .  .  ."  he  dropped  to 
a  whisper;  "  Darling,  I  could  get  a  special  licence;  wont  you? 
now  that ."  He  meant  to  say  "  Now  that  I'm  off  tomor- 
row," but  bit  back  the  words,  holding  to  an  unspoken  pact 
among  the  young  men  who  go  into  the  fighting  line,  that  the 
"  last-day-of-all  "  leverage  is  not  a  fair  one  to  use  in  the  shift 
of  a  girl's  will. 

"  I  cant  marry  you,  Tim.  How  could  I  ever  look  Gillian 
in  the  face  again?  After  she's  been  so  brave  and  wonderful 
.  .  .  just  to  show  us  all  the  way  .  .  .  it's  simply  nothing  to 
follow,  after  some  one  else  has  gone  first!  " 

"  But "  Timothy  stopped,  his  light  thick  eyebrows  were 

drawn  to  a  puzzled  frown.  Then  he  started  off  again  — "  I 
don't  see  what  harm,  it  does  any  one,  us  being  married  ?  " 

"  Marriage  —  is  —  obsolete,"  said  Nell,  with  absolute  dead 
certainty.     "  And  we  owe  it  to  the  future,  Timothy." 

"  Owe  what?  " 

"  Not  to  give  in." 

Nell  was  resolved  not  to  give  in.  And  hers  was  a  nature  of 
such  thick  obstinacy  as  Timothy  had  not  even  begun  to  suspect. 
There  was  little  of  Deb's  pliability  about  young  Nell.  Impres- 
sionable she  was,  unexpectedly,  as  in  the  case  of  her  unswerv- 
ing, unquestioning  devotion  to  Gillian  Sherwood,  but  she  could 
not  be  readily  diverted  this  way  and  that,  as  could  Deb.  This 
way  —  but  not  that. 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  333 

"  If  we  gave  in  and  got  married  in  the  old  stupid  fashion, 
then  dozens  of  other  twos  might  do  it  because  we  did." 

"  Would  that  matter?  "  Timothy  asked  unhappily. 

She  flashed:     "  Oh,  if  you'd  rather  be  just  anybody  instead 

of  Pioneers "     Then  reproachfully,  "  You  pretended  to 

agree  last  time  we  talked  about  it.  You  oughtn't  to  pretend, 
Timothy,  because  it  makes  me  sort  of  step  on  something  which 
I'm  quite  sure  is  there  but  isn't  —  like  that  funny,  hateful  feel- 
ing when  you  go  up  one  stair  too  much  in  the  dark  —  d'you 
know?  " 

"  Yes.  But  it's  not  so  bad  as  when  you  don't  come  down  one 
stair  enough." 

"  Yes,  it  is.  It's  worse.  Your  way  only  makes  one  fall  and 
hurt  oneself  .  .  .  it's  quite  ordinary.  But  the  other  way  gives 
you  a  —  an  inside  feeling  .  .  .  oh,  I  don't  know  —  like  a 
shock!  " 

"  Well,  anyway,"  said  Tim,  trying  to  regain  forfeited  ground, 
"  I  wasn't  pretending.  Of  course  the  idea  is  wonderful  about 
being  pioneers,  and  not  minding  —  and  —  and  going  first  to 
clear  away  the  rubbish  for  the  others.  And  of  course  I  think  it 
no  end  plucky  of  Gillian  to  go  and  live  with  the  fellow  she 
loves,  nor  bother  a  cuss  about  being  married  or  anything. 
But  —  need  we?"  He  added:  "You're  different,  Nell  .  .  . 
that's  what  I  mean." 

It  was  not  quite  all  he  meant.  But  how  could  he  express  his 
sense  of  her  harebell  frailty;  and  his  great  desire  —  heritage  of 
two  thousand  years  and  more  years  behind  —  to  act  the  male, 
and  protect  her,  and  mightily  build  her  round  with  protection 
that  not  a  whistleful  of  cold  air  could  pierce  one  chink  of  his 
protection  on  to  one  inch  of  her  sensitive  soul. 

Nell  loved  Timothy.  On  the  second  of  April  (she  remem- 
bered the  day)  he  had  kissed  her  slowly  and  reverently  —  and 
then  suddenly,  with  queer  eyes,  and  cherub's  mouth  grimly 
puckered  and  set,  had  strangled  her  body  in  his  arms  till  she 
wondered.  ...  Be  sure  a  girl  loves  the  boy  in  whose  eyes  she 
first  sees  that  special  queer  look  called  up  by  her. 

But  Gillian  still  claimed  her  worship.     Gillian  she  still  ideal- 


334  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

ized  from  footstool  vantage.  Gillian  was  a  genius,  and  Gillian 
was  brave,  and  Gillian  had  taken  careless  notice  of  her,  and 
sometimes  even  been  whimsically  tender;  Gillian  had  never 
laughed  at  her  —  the  least  she  could  do  in  gratitude  was  to  reg- 
ulate her  conduct  by  Gillian's;  to  trust  and  follow  her  chosen 
pilot;  not  let  the  sacrifice  be  in  vain.  .  .  .  Why,  supposing 
after  Gillian  had  risked  her  very  soul  in  daring  initiative,  all 
her  disciples  had  scuttled  backwards  from  her  example  .  .  . 
and  .  .  .  and  got  married!  Nell's  face  burnt  with  the  shame 
of  it;  she  pressed  her  hot  cheek  down  among  the  cool  stems. 
.  .  .  Funny,  how  enormous  the  thicket  of  buttercups  looked 
above  her,  viewed  right  down  here  amongst  their  beginnings 
.  .  .  flicker  of  green  and  shadow  of  gold  and  minute  fragments 
of  notched  fern  and  leaf,  of  weed  and  moss  and  wee  scurry- 
ing insects  .  .  .  the  polished  petals  bulged  close  to  her  eyelids, 
a  bright  blue  beetle  swung  like  a  jewel  from  the  tip  of  a  blade 
of  grass  .  .  .  below  all  this  stir  and  hurry  and  colour  —  what 
else  was  there?  Could  she  get  deeper  down  into  it?  Deeper 
and  deeper?  If  she  lay  quite  quite  still,  would  the  earth-life 
fold  her  up  and  cover  her  over  with  its  smell  and  its  hum  .  .  . 
drowse  —  that  was  an  earth-word.  .  .  .  Nell  repeated  it  softly 
..."  drowse  .  .  .  drowse  .  .  ." 

*'  Billy  Dawson's  number  has  gone  up,"  Timothy's  voice, 
startlingly  near  and  loud,  split  the  little  circle  of  hush  she  had 
woven  about  her.  "  Saw  it  in  the  paper  today.  Poor  old  Billy 
—  he  was  one  of  the  best.  Brought  down  three  Boches  first 
and  then  Archie  got  him.  Rotten  luck  —  I  liked  old  Bill. 
This  was  his  second  time  out  there  .  .  ." 

And  all  not  quite  as  irrelevant  as  it  appeared.  Timothy  felt 
urgently  the  need  of  now  or  never  making  some  special  appeal 
to  Nell,  a  thrust  to  penetrate  all  her  spiritual  mufflers.  Be- 
cause it  so  literally  might  be  never  —  after  today.  But  he 
could  not  say  this  —  there  was  the  bother  of  it!  It  simply 
wasn't  done  in  the  Flying  Corps  —  of  course  not.  But  maybe 
if  he  just  insinuated  into  her  perception  that  airmen  do  occa- 
sionally get  killed  —  other  airmen  —  especially  when  for  the 
second  time  out  there  —  well,  no  harm  in  that,  surely?     Tim- 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  335 

othy,  whose  natural  blunt  honesty  did  not  often  lead  him  into 
strategy,  now  viewed  himself  as  a  very  Machiavelli  of  subtle 
craft.  He  watched  her  closely  for  a  wash  of  deeper  colour  in 
her  neck  and  cheeks.  But  Nell  rarely  flushed  .  .  .  and  he 
could  not  see  her  eyes  .  .  . 

A  wind  trembled  over  the  top  of  the  buttercups,  swayed 
them  from  misty  gold  to  a  brilliant  shining  sea  of  light.  .  .  . 

"Oh!  "  and  Nell  sprang  upright,  "I  want  to  get  closer  to 
them  —  oh,  how  does  one  get  closer  and  closer.  ...  I  thought 
to  lie  in  among  them,  but  it  doesn't  help  a  bit.  .  .  ."  She  be- 
gan to  gather  up  whole  masses  of  buttercups,  not  picking  each 
one  singly  from  the  stem,  but  tearing  riotously,  indiscrim- 
inately, an  armful  at  a  time,  as  though  she  were  quenching  a 
thirst.  .  .  .  Timothy,  his  gaze  round  with  amazement,  won- 
dered what  was  the  secret  spring  of  this  outburst  of  passion, 
venting  itself  on  buttercups,  millions  of  buttercups  ...  al- 
ready she  had  wrenched  away  more  than  she  could  carry;  they 
tumbled  from  her  fingers,  and  unheeding  she  stepped  on  them 
and  grasped  for  more  .  .  .  the  long  stems  clung  about  her 
ankles  —  tripped  her  to  her  knees.  Timothy  leapt  forward 
and  clutched  her  as  she  fell  against  him  —  saw  her  and  held  her 
and  kissed  her  through  the  sharp-edged  little  petals  —  brushed 
them  impatiently  away.  ..."  Closer  —  and  closer !  "  he 
sobbed  — 

"Tim  — I  oughtn't!     We  oughtn't!  .  .  ." 

"  It's  right  —  you  said  so.  .  .  ."  (Timothy  had  no  idea  he 
was  being  funny ! ) 

The  meadow,  before  these  human  babes  stepped  into  it,  was 
scooped  with  the  rhythm  of  a  perfect  yellow  bowl.  But  now 
the  buttercups  which  had  escaped  the  handling  of  Nell's  fever- 
fury,  stood  away,  aloof  and  delicate,  from  those  other  marred 
and  trampled  patches  .  .  .  buttercups  wilting  .  .  .  buttercups 
dead. 


D 


CHAPTER    II 


"  I  \EB?  —  oh,  she'll  be  all  right  in  December,"  said  Mrs. 
Phillips  to  Beatrice,  and  Beatrice  to  Trudchen  Red- 
bury,  and  Herbert  and  Abe  to  Samson,  and  Samson 
to  Grandmother  Phillips,  and  Grandmother  Phillips  to  Flo  and 
Martha  and  Gwendolen.     "  All  right  in  December.  .  .  ." 

"Poor  Deb!" 

"  I  think  Samson  is  simply  too  sweet  with  her.  I've  never 
seen  any  one  so  devoted." 

"  Of  course  it's  wonderful  luck  for  Deb  that  he  should  be 
employed  at  the  arsenal,  so  that  he  can  get  home  every 
evening." 

"  I  don't  believe  he's  missed  a  single  evening  since  they  were 
married  —  how  long  is  it  now?     Eight  months." 

"  It's  such  a  pity  she  wasn't  well  enough  to  come  to  Grand- 
ma's birthday  party,  I  can't  help  thinking.  You  know,  it's 
important  for  Samson  —  Grandma's  so  fond  of  him  —  always 
has  been  —  the  eldest  .  .  .  and  Deb's  rather  extravagant. 
Well,  of  course,  she's  not  used  to  managing  yet  —  she  does  her 
best." 

"  I'm  afraid  you're  right,  Beattie.  Because  if  she  helped  in 
the  garden,  the  gardener  twice  a  week  would  have  been  suf- 
ficient. But  they  have  Mills  on  Mondays,  Wednesdays,  and 
Fridays.  I  asked  him.  And  snipping  off  dead  blooms  is  noth- 
ing really  ...  if  you  care  about  flowers.  My  son's  favour- 
ite hobby,  too  .  .  .  one  would  have  thought  that  Deb  —  of 
course,  I'm  always  there  to  instruct  her  how  I  manage  about 
my  seeds,  but  — " 

"  Gwen  and  I  have  promised  her  to  go  in  every  morning  for 

33G 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  337 

two  hours'  sewing.  I  still  have  the  patterns  we  had  for  little 
Fanny's  things.  .  .  .  Oh,  she'll  be  all  right  in  December!  " 

This  was  early  June.  ...  In  December  Samson's  son  was 
to  be  born.  Samson's  son  —  no  misgiving  in  the  minds  of  the 
Phillips  that  Deb  might  be  just  the  sort  of  girl  to  present  him 
with  a  daughter  instead.  .  .  .  They  trusted  her  to  do  her  best 
for  the  family.  "  I  believe  that  trusting  people  is  half  the 
battle,"  said  Beatrice  brightly. 

Samson  had  not  yet  recovered  sufficiently  from  his  bewilder- 
ment at  the  discovery  that  Deb  was  a  liar  but  no  sinner,  to 
spread  out  the  matter  clearly  in  words  before  her,  and  ask  for 
enlightenment.  Instead,  he  brooded.  .  .  .  What  could  have 
been  her  possible  object,  wilfully  to  blacken  her  character  in 
his  sight?  And  at  that  crucial  period  of  her  life,  too,  while 
he  was  proposing  to  her?  — "  it  might  have  put  me  right 
off.  .  .  ." 

The  magnanimous  husband  was  uneasy  whenever  he  thought 
about  it  all.  He  felt  like  Falstaff  among  the  lobs  and  gnomes 
on  midsummer  night;  a  sensation  of  trickery  somewhere;  some- 
where, somebody  laughing;  an  elusive  tweak  at  his  nose.  .  .  . 
Why  had  Deb  said:  "I  have  not  been  good"?  Why,  as  it 
was  palpably  not  true?  Why  had  she  afterwards  pleaded  for 
his  forgiveness?  Why  .  .  .  Samson  hated  things  he  could  not 
understand.  He  went  about  his  home  heavily,  suspicious  that 
at  any  instamt  another  such  perplexity  might  pop  up  to  con- 
front him.  .  .  .  He  had  taken  Mab,  Queen  of  the  Pixies,  for 
wife.  .  .  . 

They  had  settled  down  in  Hampstead,  to  be  near  the  rest 
of  the  family.  He  had  asked  his  family  to  see  a  lot  of  Deb, 
adjudging  their  influence  to  be  of  solid  benefit.  His  "  little 
girl  "  would  have  no  time  to  fret  after  her  clever  (and  im- 
moral) Bohemian  friends,  if  she  had  always  some  one  with 
whom  to  chat;  she  would  probably  take  to  Flo  most  —  Flo  was 
so  lively!     Really,  almost  a  Bohemian  herself  (only  moral). 

And  every  night  they  all  dined  with  Mrs.  Phillips  and  the 
Phillips'  grandparents,  or  else  with  Hardy  and  Beatrice,  or 
with  Abe  and  Martha,  or  with  Florence  and  Gwendolen,  who 


338  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

were  living  together  now  their  husbands  were  at  the  Front; 
or  else  Mrs.  Phillips  and  the  Phillips'  grandparents  and  Hardy 
and  Beatrice  and  Abe  and  Martha  and  Florence  and  Gwendolen 
came  to  dine  with  Deb  and  Samson.  ..."  We're  a  very  united 
family,  you  know,  Deb."  ... 

Deb,  as  hostess,  used  to  combat  boredom  by  a  sinister  little 
game  especially  invented  by  herself  for  those  occasions.  She 
used  to  pretend  that  one  dish  of  the  meal  —  only  one  dish  — 
was  poisoned,  by  her  express  orders.  It  was  quite  amusing  to 
note  which  members  of  the  family  would  eat  of  it,  and  which 
would  escape;  and  which  only  partially  escape  by  helping 
themselves  very  moderately.  .  .  .  Curious  that  Abe,  her  spe- 
cial aversion,  by  some  twist  of  luck,  always  passed  over  what- 
ever dish  it  was  that  Deb  had  fixed  as  lethal.  .  .  .  She  realized 
that  it  would  be  hard  indeed  to  kill  Abe! 

If  the  Phillips  were  being  particularly  exasperating,  then 
Deb's  fancy  would  carry  on  the  drama  through  the  subsequent 
stages  of  her  sudden  casual  pronouncement  of  the  impending 
doom :  "  I  think  it  only  right  to  tell  you  all  —  forgive  me  for 
interrupting  you,  Grandma  —  that  the  curry  was  poisoned,  and 
you've  none  of  you  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  live." 

Oh,  it  was  a  childish  game!  Deb,  aged  twenty-six,  wife  of 
Samson  Phillips,  prospective  mother  of  a  Phillips'  heir,  mis- 
tress of  a  fair-sized  house  and  garden  and  two  well-trained 
servants  and  the  gardener  three  times  a  week.  Deb,  anchored  in 
harbour  at  last,  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  divert  her- 
self thus  idiotically.     But  —  those  Phillipses! 

It  was  not  as  though  they  disapproved  of  her.  That  would 
have  been  quite  stimulating  —  to  have  been  the  object  of  vio- 
lent disapproval,  perpetual  scoldings  and  perpetual  defiance, 
hers  the  slightly  supercilious  attitude  of  the  bomb  which  ex- 
plodes sensationally  in  a  cabbage  field  .  .  .  after  all,  under 
such  conditions,  the  bomb  is  the  centre  of  attention! 

But  the  Phillipses  took  it  so  heartily  for  granted  that  Deb 
was  one  of  them;  that  their  cheerful  intelligent  interests  were 
her  interests;  their  alert  and  wholesome  outlook,  her  outlook. 
They  were  so  unaware  that  other  interests  or  outlook  existed; 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  339 

or,  existing,  that  it  could  possibly  claim  a  Phillips.  For  they 
had  taken  her  to  the  Phillips'  bosom  —  no,  worse,  they  had 
absorbed  her  into  the  Phillips'  bosom;  wrapt  her  densely  round 
with  warm  affection  and  inquisitive  solicitude;  what  Deb  did 
was  right;  and  if  it  were  not  quite  right  yet,  that  did  not  mat- 
ter either,  because  Deb  was  doing  her  best.  Inconceivable  to 
them  that  she  should  not  be  doing  her  best,  trying  hard,  where 
Samson  and  the  family  and  the  household  and  the  future  heir 
was  concerned.  Even  as  they  would  believe  to  the  end  of  all 
time  that  chocolate  pudding  was  her  favourite  pudding,  so 
not  a  doubt  existed  but  that  Deb  was  all  right  —  except  when 
it  was  natural  she  should  not  be  all  right  —  and  that  would  be 
all  right  in  December.  .  .  . 

Therefore  Deb  poisoned  them,  one  by  one,  and  was  not  even 
sorry.  It  was  a  pity  only  that  there  was  no  one  in  whom  to 
confide  these  illicit  prancings  of  her  imagination.  Samson 
would  certainly  not  have  seen  the  joke.  Besides,  she  was  rather 
afraid  of  Samson.  He  read  the  Faerie  Queene  aloud  to  her 
on  Sunday  afternoons,  sitting  in  the  garden,  with  a  rug  over 
her  knees  and  cushions  at  her  back;  and  sometimes  he  paused 
to  interpret  the  more  difficult  parts  of  the  allegory;  and  often, 
playfully,  he  called  her  Una  —  yes,  he  could  do  so  now,  be- 
cause she  was  a  pure  girl,  though  he  still  did  not  understand 
why.  .  .  . 

There  was  compensation  in  her  life  when  Ferdie  came  round 
towards  six  o'clock  on  dry  evenings;  exultantly  dragged  out  the 
hose;  and  solemnly,  but  with  a  kind  of  red  beam  shining  be- 
hind the  solemnity,  watered  the  two  long  flower-beds  and  the 
one  short  one  which  bounded  their  half -acre  of  garden;  which 
was  not  at  all  unlike  their  old  garden  at  Daisybanks,  with  its 
one  shady  tree  over  the  tea-table,  and  the  earwiggy  arbour;  only 
the  Virginia  creeper  over  the  back  of  the  house  was  lacking; 
the  mat  of  dark  polished  ivy  was  not  one-quarter  as  lovable  as 
the  clinging  tendrils  and  late  crimson  she  tenderly  remembered. 

"  Richard  is  so  happy  nowadays,"  Ferdie  would  confide  in 
his  daughter,  perhaps  with  a  wistful  plea  for  reassurance  that 
he  had  not  been  the  cause  of  Richard's  year  of  wretchedness. 


340  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  He  reads  of  military  history  and  air  tactics  all  day  long.  .  .  . 
I  believe  he  thinks  himself  already  a  captain  in  the  R.F.C." 

And  this  also  was  good  to  hear. 

Of  her  previous  gang  of  friends,  Deb  saw  only  Antonia. 
Cliffe  was  forbidden;  Zoe  —  obviously  one  could  never  be 
quite  sure  what  Zoe  would  say!  Her  blend  of  Palais  Royale 
adventure  and  eighteenth-century  interpretation  thereof,  was 
perilous,  in  the  presence  of  Samson  or  Mrs.  Phillips  or  Martha. 

And  they  had  all  heard  of  Gillian  and  her  achievements  in 
science,  and  had  heard  a  vague  report,  too,  that  there  was 
something  "  not  quite  nice  "  about  her.  Celebrities  were  often 
like  that,  of  course,  and  one  did  not  mind  a  bit;  but  then  — 
one  did  not  come  in  social  contact  with  celebrities.  They  were 
both  too  good  and  not  good  enough  for  the  Phillips'  standard. 
Perhaps  anyway  for  the  moment  it  was  better  that  little  Deb  — 
"What  do  you  think,  Samson?  "  "I  don't  want  her  to  be 
lonely,  but  you  see  a  lot  of  her,  don't  you,  Beattie?  you  and  the 
girls  and  mother?     I  don't  want  her  to  mope!  " 

"  Oh,  we'll  see  that  Deb  isn't  much  alone,"  promised  Beattie, 
laughing ;  "  I  expect  she'll  almost  wish  us  away  some- 
times. .  .  ." 

La  llorraine  was  an  impossible  visitor.  Manon,  on  the  other 
hand,  as  Mrs.  Dolph  Carew,  was  welcomed  by  the  Phillips,  who 
thought  her  "  quite  a  sweet  little  thing  "  and  admired  her  de- 
mure manners  and  prim  foreign  enunciation;  and  chaffed  her 
for  her  perfectly  conventional  point  of  view  —  for  the  Phil- 
lipses  considered  themselves  too  intelligent  to  be  altogether 
conventional.  Morals  were  different  .  .  .  morals  could  be 
taken  for  granted,  like  Deb's  allegiance  to  the  family,  and  Syn- 
agogues on  Saturday,  and  clean  white  kid  gloves,  and  a  joint  on 
Sundays,  and  England  through  thick  and  thin,  and  the  windows 
always  a  little  open  in  the  children's  nurseries,  and  other  mat- 
ters of  unalterable  standing. 

Nell  Redbury  had  entirely  taken  over  Deb's  canteen  job,  so 
she  was  seldom  available  for  companionship.  The  other  Red- 
burys  came  and  went,  linked  by  Beatrice  to  the  Phillipses; 
Otto,  still  offended  with  Deb  for  her  marriage,  peevishly  for- 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  341 

bade  Trudchen  to  instruct  her  in  private  succulent  recipes  for 
Samson's  delectation.  Hedda  was  not  very  interesting  —  per- 
haps because  she  tried  so  hard  to  be  interesting.  She  pro- 
nounced "  temperament  "  with  a  far-away  look  and  an  accent 
on  the  last  syllable;  and  lamented  how  wild  and  free  a  demi- 
maid  she  might  have  been  had  not  Gustav  Fiirth  unfortunately 
made  her  his  wife  before  she  had  even  time  to  get  properly 
started.  She  capped  conversation  persistently  with  the  two 
phrases  "  Je  n'en  vois  pas  la  necessite,"  and  "  Ca  n'empeche 
pas  les  sentiments,"  which  really,  uttered  with  the  right  air  of 
esprit  and  diablerie,  could  be  made  to  impart  an  indecent 
flavour  to  almost  any  subject.  Hedda  was  .  .  .  rather  super- 
fluous. It  was  not  as  though  she  were  definitely  musical,  like 
David,  or  definitely  beautiful,  like  young  Nell;  or  possessed  the 
quaint  wit  of  Hardy;  or  the  charm  and  vitality  of  Con.  Deb 
did  not  care  about  Hedda.  Deb  was  becoming  desperate  with 
boredom  .  .  .  her  condition  made  boredom  not  lethargic  but 
a  restless  agony;  the  poisoning  game  had  lost  any  power  to  re- 
lieve those  long  family  dinners,  and  appeared  merely  futile; 
the  Phillipses  were  growing  ever  fonder  and  more  fond  of  her. 
She  felt  her  ego  to  be  a  tiny  object  lost  inside  an  enormous 
parcel,  to  which  everybody  had  wrapped  round  yet  another 
layer,  till  the  Phillipses  had  put  on  the  final  brown  paper  and 
string.  And  Samson  abandoned  the  title  of  Una,  and  proudly 
took  to  calling  her  "  little  Mother."  .  .  . 

This  was  an  inadequate  excuse  for  her  visit  to  Blair  Steven- 
son's rooms.  But  ..."  He  might  have  waited  at  least  an- 
other six  months  .  .  .  till  December.  But  I  know  they  are  all 
going  to  be  facetious  about  that  baby!  " 

Her  boredom  was  solely  of  the  mind.  Physically,  she  was 
feeling  brilliantly  well,  abnormally  vital.  Her  vitality  was  not 
allowed  to  be  idle.  .  .  .  Samson,  like  so  many  rigid  Puritans, 
was  also  a  sensualist.  And  Deb,  tired  of  the  game  itself  reit- 
erated, longed  once  more  for  the  demi-game  which  was  so  much 
a  play  of  the  mind  ...  a  play  of  two  minds;  entraining  imag- 
ination and  nimble  fantasy  and  fear  and  danger  ...  all  the 
fine  shades.     Promiscuous  adventure  had  become  with  her  too 


342  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

much  a  habit  to  break  off  with  one  wrench.  The  first  thought 
of  Blair  was  an  inevitable  reaction  from  "  being  good."  In- 
evitably, also,  she  englamoured  her  final  experience  before 
Samson  acquired  her  as  his  legal  possession,  and  forgot  that 
Blair  had  not  given  great  satisfaction,  either,  in  the  matter  of 
.  .  .  well,  ecstasy.  Remembered  only  that  he  was  her  kindred 
in  mind;  that  he  had  the  light  twist  of  humour  she  so  missed; 
the  faculty  to  play;  and  to  play  up  .  .  .  sometimes  a  visionist, 
sometimes  a  kindly  cynic,  always  the  man  of  deep  and  great 
experience  .  .  .  she  was  never  dull  with  Blair.  And  if  the 
missing  thrill  had  been  her  fault,  not  his,  then  perhaps  now  she 
was  married,  things  would  be  different.  .  .  . 

Anyway,  she  was  only  going  to  look  at  his  rooms,  from  the 
outside  .  .  .  because  he  was  still  away,  still  in  America.  She 
was  only  going  to  steal  from  her  cosy  dug-out  back  again  to 
No  Man's  Land,  so  that  at  dinner  with  the  Phillipses  tomorrow, 
she  might  console  herself  deliciously  by  the  thought  that  she 
was  a  secret  rebel  to  that  irksome  old  Phillips'  Illusion.  Cer- 
tainly Blair  was  still  away,  or  —  or  Antonia  would  have  men- 
tioned it  (would  Antonia?).  So  the  expedition  on  to  forbid- 
den territory  had  the  merit  of  being  also  perfectly  safe. 

And  yet  she  might  not  have  gone  .  .  .  had  not  general  con- 
ditions grouped  themselves  in  a  way  so  absurdly  conventional 
that  she  could  not  refuse  to  attend  to  her  obvious  stage  direc- 
tions. For  duty  obliged  Samson  to  stay  away  for  a  night;  and 
this  fact  he  paraded  with  so  much  pomp  and  formality  and 
vexation,  made  such  vigilant  arrangements  for  the  disposal  of 
his  little  wife's  loneliness,  and  reassured  her  so  often  as  to  his 
certain  return  the  following  night,  that  the  comedy  of  the  de- 
ceived husband  suggested  itself  automatically  —  to  any  one 
whose  brain  worked  like  Deb's.  And  then  Abe  rang  up  from  a 
call-office  to  say  that  Martha  (whom  Samson's  care  had  ensured 
as  a  companion  for  Deb  that  night)  had  a  bilious  attack,  and 
did  not  want  to  go  out,  and  would  Deb  come  to  her  instead,  or 
should  they  let  Florence  know  to  go  round?  Deb  herself,  be- 
ing at  that  moment  in  the  bath,  did  not  answer  the  telephone, 
but  received  the  information  from  a  breathless  housemaid,  who 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  343 

thought  the  telephone  "  a  nasty  thing,"  liable  at  any  moment  to 
explode,  so  that  she  never  listened  long  enough  to  receive  and 
deliver  a  message  as  it  was  given.  Deb  did  not  bother  to  turn 
off  the  taps,  but  called  back  carelessly  through  the  rush  and 
splutter,  that  she'd  expect  Florence  and  would  run  round  to 
see  how  Martha  fared  in  the  morning.  She  repeated  this  twice; 
and  turning  off  the  water  a  moment  later,  heard  afar  off  the 
voice  of  the  housemaid  explaining  that  Mrs.  Samson  Phillips 
would  go  round  to  Mrs.  Abe  Phillips,  and  expect  to  see  Mrs. 
Herbert  Phillips  in  the  morning.  .  .  . 

"Muddler!  "  reflected  Deb.  And  then  she  smiled  ...  all 
the  banal  mechanism  was  so  absurdly  in  her  favour  —  husband 
away  —  a  muddle  on  the  telephone  —  suppose  she  assumed 
that  her  bath-water  had  run  on  a  minute  or  two  longer,  swamp- 
ing all  sound,  then  she  would  apparently  be  justified  in  her  late 
appearance  at  Martha's  by  an  after  explanation  that  she  had 
remained  at  home  waiting  for  Flo,  according  to  arrangement. 
It  seemed  a  pity  to  waste  all  this  most  excellent  clockwork  on 
an  appointment  with  last  year's  shadows  in  Jermyn  Street. 
But  still,  even  Blair's  wraith  might  be  more  amusing  than  a 
surfeit  of  Abe  or  Flo.  .  .  .  Deb  never  bothered  to  resist  the 
guidance  of  external  circumstances.  .  .  . 

Straight  to  Jermyn  Street  .  .  .  the  servants  would  believe 
she  had  gone  round  to  Martha.  .  .  .  Then  an  hour  later  she 
would  appear  at  Martha's,  saying  reproachfully  that  she  had 
been  waiting  all  the  time  for  Flo.  .  .  .  Nobody  would  bother 
to  verify  the  discrepancy  in  time;  the  loss  of  an  hour.  .  .  . 

So  —  straight  to  Jermyn  Street  .  .  .  just  for  the  fun  of  it! 
Just  for  the  fun  of  huddling  herself  in  a  disguising  cloak,  and 
once  again  creeping  with  awed  feet  along  that  silent,  mysterious 
avenue  where  "  men  of  the  world  "  abode  ...  for  the  fun  of 
gazing  wistfully  up  at  the  imperturbable  stone  frontage  behind 
which  playtime  lay  forgotten  ...  for  the  fun  of  being  once 
more  in  mischief,  dreading  discovery,  thrilling  at  her  own  dar- 
ing ..  .  for  the  fun  of  flouting  the  Phillips'  Illusion! 

"  He  is  still  in  America,"  for  his  windows  showed  sombre. 
But  she  remembered  that  in  these  days  of  air-raids,  the  erring 


344  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

woman,  creeping  back  to  her  past,  could  no  longer  expect  to 
see  the  welcoming  gleam  from  her  lover's  lamp  —  or  candle  — 
or  electric  light.  ...  It  was  still  possible  that  Blair  was  at 
home.  .  .  . 

But  of  course  he  was  in  America ! 

Crouching  against  the  pillar  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  it  struck 
her  how  in  picture  she  resembled  her  private  and  particular 
horror  as  she  had  once  described  it  to  Gillian  —  the  wanton 
always  and  inevitably  "  left,"  outcast  in  the  rain  and  the  cold, 
while  inside  husband  and  wife  contentedly  read  aloud  the 
Faerie  Queene.  .  .  . 

*'  I  only  need  the  baby  under  my  shawl.  .  .  ." 

And  suddenly  she  flushed  crimson,  there  to  herself  in  the 
dusk;  and  in  secret  shame  sprang  quickly  to  her  feet,  "  Fm 
going  home  —  to  Flo,  I  mean  — " 

And  banality,  stage-manager  till  the  end,  at  that  moment 
smartly  brought  up  Blair  Stevenson  to  the  foot  of  the  steps; 
and  suggested  he  should  switch  on  his  torch  to  aid  his  search 
for  the  keyhole  —  the  flare  of  light  swept  across  Deb's  face. 

II 

Deb  arrived  at  Martha's,  wondering  if  any  one  so  virtuous  as 
herself  had  ever  inhabited  Hampstead  or  the  universe.  The 
scene  with  Blair  had  been  a  most  astonishing  one.  Not  only 
did  he  subtly  convey  to  her  his  refusal  to  meet  her  on  the  old 
terms  of  play,  but  he  rather  more  directly  than  usual  put  to 
her  the  choice  of  being  extremely  good  or  —  or  extremely  bad. 
Blair  —  who  of  all  men  had  seemed  to  acquiesce  in  the  demi- 
game  for  the  demi-maid!  Blair,  who  was  practically  the  in- 
ventor of  fine  shades.  ..."  Quite  so,  my  dear  —  but  now  — " 
he  lightly  touched  the  wedding  ring  on  her  finger. 

"  Does  that  make  a  difference?  '* 

The  slice  from  the  cut  loaf.  .  .  . 

Almost  crude,  from  Blair! 

"  Don't  look  so  taken  aback,  child.  .  .  .  Deb,  what  did  you 
expect?     Come,  let's  talk  it  out,  you  and  I." 

So  they  sat  on  the  narrow  stone  balcony  jutting  over  the 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  345 

street  —  and  side  by  side,  without  a  touch  between  them,  had 
talked  .  .  .  about  touch,  and  about  play,  and  marriage,  and 
good  old  times,  and  loaves,  and  the  demi-game,  and  the  point 
of  view  of  the  man.  .  .  . 

"  You  can't  go  all  the  way,  and  then  half  way  back.  Deb. 
Nor  will  you  find  a  partner  to  step  that  dance  with  you.  Our 
old  instinctive  obeisance  before  the  maiden  doesn't  hold  good 
before  the  wife,  so  why  should  I  —  or  any  man  —  be  content 
with  half?  " 

"  I  thought  you  had  enjoyed  it  .  .  ."  whispered  Deb. 

"  You  were  always  .  .  .  quite  charming,  dear.  But  —  put 
it  like  this:  supposing  there  had  been  no  one  else  for  me,  dur- 
ing our  friendship,  do  you  think  then,  that  our  friendship  as  it 
was  would  have  been  enough?  " 

"Forme!" 

"Forme?" 

"  Then  there  was  —  some  one  all  the  time?  " 

"  Indeed  there  was  .  .  ."  his  smile  entered  her  into  his  con- 
fidence. 

"  I  don't  mind  .  .  ."  said  Deb  imcertainly. 

"  Of  course  you  don't.  But  —  now,  there's  no  reason,  is 
there,  why  you  shouldn't  be  that  somebody  yourself?  " 

She  shook  a  doubtful  head. 

"  I  love  your  mop  of  hair.  Deb  —  I'm  glad  you  cut  it." 

"  I  wanted  to  look  like  a  boy  — " 

"  You  look  the  most  girlish  creature  that  ever  plagued  a 
man  with  promises." 

She  interrupted  with  a  quick:    "  I  never  promised  anything." 

"  Not  with  your  mouth.  Deb.  Not  with  speech,  rather.  .  .  . 
How  am  I  now  to  wind  the  thick  black  tresses  round  your 
throat,  Deborah?  " 

"  You'll  have  to  abandon  that  pretty  old-world  pastime  — " 
flippantly.     "  Or  take  the  bell-rope." 

"  Will  I  have  to  abandon  pastime  altogether?  " 

"  It's  for  you  to  say." 

"  For  you  to  choose  —  all  or  nothing  .  .  .  dearest." 

She  said  petulantly:    "  I  didn't  come  here  for  these  ponder- 


346  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

ous  life-or-death  choosings  —  I  came  for  .  .  .  for  Japanese 
lanterns  dancing  in  the  tree-tops." 
"  That  sort  of  thing.     Yes  — " 

'A  tinkering  with  the  lute  of  love 
By  a  nervous  hand  in  a  padded  glove.'" 

He  broke  off,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  gesture  which  conveyed 
without  insult :     "  Ca  ennui,  a  la  fin.  .  .  ." 

Then  still  without  touching  her:  "Well  —  is  it  to  be  the 
faithful  wife?  " 

"I  think  so,"  said  Deb,  and  added  politely:  "But  thank 
you  very  much  indeed  for  having  been  so  kind  to  me  in  the 
past." 

" —  Or  may  I  have  the  privilege  of  loving  you  as  much  as 
I  have  never  dared  to  love  you?  "  he  continued,  unheeding  her 
reply. 

Deb  slowly  turned  her  head  to  look  at  him.  A  very  wan 
moon  shivering  through  the  darkness,  helped  her  scrutiny.  .  .  . 
She  laughed  softly :  "  You  don't  love  me  one  bit,  Blair.  Nor 
are  you  likely  to." 

"  If  I  told  you  how  much,"  murmured  the  diplomat,  "  I 
should  influence  your  choice  unfairly." 

"  That's  exactly  what  Samson  said  when  he  wouldn't  take 
my  hand  before  proposing  to  me.  Oh  dear  —  I  suppose  it  will 
have  to  be  Samson  —  and  everlasting  virtue  —  and  dinner  with 
my  mother-in-law  tomorrow.  There  is  no  choice,  Blair  —  as 
things  are  .  .  ."  and  she  sighed,  thinking  of  December.  "  If  it 
weren't  for  family  claims,  I  might  ask  you  to  be  godfather, 
Blair.  .  .  ." 

"I  see." 

Abruptly  he  stood  up. 

"  If  you  don't  intend  to  burn  your  boats  —  then  it's  too  late 
and  too  dark  for  you  to  be  sitting  alone  with  me  here.  Run 
home,  little  mother  —  silly  child,  you  need  a  lot  of  looking 
after,  don't  you?  " 

He  thrust  such  whimsical  tenderness  into  the  inflexion  "  silly 
child  "  that  she  forgave  him  "  little  mother,"  as  she  would 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  347 

never  forgive  Samson.  But  she  wished  she  had  been  the  first 
to  think  of  going  home.  .  .  . 

"  We  part  good  friends,  Deb?  " 

And  she,  demurely:  "My  At  Home  day  is  on  second  Sun- 
days." 

And  they  laughed  into  each  other's  eyes  —  excellent  friends. 

Ill 

So  perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  Deb  had  definitely 
underlined  a  previous  decision,  instead  of  cancelling  it.  In 
marrying  Samson,  she  was  "being  good";  in  her  refusal  to 
lapse  from  fidelity,  she  was  still  "  being  good  "...  Incred- 
ible! Her  pleased  and  proud  astonishment  had  hardly  sub- 
sided, when  her  husband  returned  late  the  following  afternoon. 

"  I  rang  up  last  night,  trimk  call,  just  to  see  if  the  little 
woman  was  all  right  without  me,"  he  remarked  fondly,  over  the 
fish;  "it  was  about  nine  o'clock,  but  the  line  must  have  been 
out  of  order  —  I  couldn't  get  a  reply." 

"  I  daresay  the  line  was  all  right,  but  cook  was  out,  and  I 
simply  can't  get  Annie  to  realize  that  the  'phone  isn't  a  wild 
beast.  She  was  probably  cowering  under  the  kitchen  table, 
while  it  rang." 

"  But  you  would  have  answered  it  if  it  had  rung?  " 

"No  —  I  was  at  Marty's." 

"  Not  at  nine  o'clock.  I  dropped  in  just  now  to  see  Abe  on 
business,  and  he  said  you  didn't  turn  up  till  twenty-five  minutes 
past  ten,  because  of  some  mistake  in  a  message.  If  you  were 
at  home  and  didn't  hear  the  'phone  bell  yourself,  you  shouldn't 
be  so  quick  to  blame  Annie.  I  believe  in  being  just  with  serv- 
ants. Deb.     Or  —  weren't  you  at  home?  " 

She  lost  her  bearings.     "  Oh  ...  I  don't  know  .  .  ." 

The  phrase  irritated  him  —  reminded  him  of  a  previous  occa- 
sion when  she  had  used  it  ...  a  dialogue  on  their  wedding 
night.  ...  If  Deb  were  altogether  to  be  trusted  ...  he  was 
not  the  man  to  ask  questions  when  once  he  trusted  his  wife. 
But  Deb  —  Deb  had  not  been  like  other  girls.  So  Deb  was 
not  like  other  wives.    And  now,  the  minute  he  left  her  — 


348  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

Stale  type  of  suspicious  husband,  Samson  glowered,  pulled 
his  moustache,  meditated,  decided  to  pass  over  the  incident, 
changed  his  mind  —  and  broke  out: 

"  Look  here,  Deborah  —  I'm  sick  of  all  this  shifting  about. 
It  all  goes  back  further  than  last  night.  I'm  going  to  get  to 
the  bottom  of  the  matter.  You've  got  to  give  me  a  plain  answer 
to  a  plain  question.  Why  did  you  tell  me  a  year  before  I  mar- 
ried you,  that  you  weren't  a  good  girl  ?  " 

Beat  back  through  all  that  undergrowth?  back  and  back  — 
tangled  motive,  and  reaction,  and  example,  the  example  of 
Jenny  Carew,  once  —  but  that  was  all  over  ...  a  word  read 
at  a  critical  moment  .  .  .  moods,  and  the  love  of  whirlwind  dis- 
guises .  .  .  mischief  —  boredom  .  .  .  Yes,  yes,  further  back 
still  .  .  .  influence,  of  course —  the  influence  of  ClifTe  Kennedy, 
of  Gillian.  .  .  .  Well,  but  that  was  recent  —  and  behind  that? 
The  undergrowth  thicker,  thickening  .  .  .  her  innate  recoil 
from  stinginess ;  the  girl  who  will  not  give.  ...  To  and  fro  her 
mind  rushed  and  stumbled  with  a  snapping  of  twigs  in  the  un- 
dergrowth .  .  .  trying,  obediently  trying,  to  find  out  wky  she 
had  told  that  silly,  senseless  lie  .  .  .  the  Phillips  family  — 
fear  of  being  sucked  into  respectability  —  fear  of  the  fate  of 
the  wanton  —  fear  of  wasting,  of  not  being  wanted.  .  .  .  Aunt 
Stella.  .  .  .  And  the  scene  with  Ferdie.  ...  If  they  did  not 
believe  her  good,  she  would  at  least  be  bad.  .  .  .  That  look  in 
Blair's  eyes  when  he  thought  —  no,  that  was  afterwards.  .  .  . 
Women,  everywhere  women  .  .  .  and  chastity  which  was  end- 
less vigil.  .  .  .  Richard  crying  with  his  head  in  her  lap.  .  .  . 
So  she  married  Samson,  yes,  and  meant  to  be  decent  to  him  — 
if  she  could  not  be  bad,  she  would  at  least  be  good  —  good  — 
good.  ...  So  she  married  Samson,  now  confronting  her  in 
the  attitude  of  fanatic  orthodoxy,  waiting  to  "  get  to  the  bot- 
tom of  it " —  of  what?  Of  all  her  life,  and  the  lives  stretch- 
ing behind  her,  and  the  Cosmos  that  had  shaped  her  —  the 
entire  matted  web  of  cause  and  effect?  All  this?  How  could 
she  hope  to  drag  his  understanding  in  her  wake?  His  under- 
standing that  was  such  a  thoroughly  awkward  shape  —  un- 
pliable,  granite-hewn,  rigid  corners  and  lumps,  bits  of  lichen 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  349 

in  all  the  crannies.  .  .  .  Why,  she  could  not  even  push  through 
the  labyrinth  herself,  with  all  her  squirrel  facility.  .  .  . 

"  Give  me  plain  answer  — " 

Plain  answer?  And  suddenly  Deb  realized  the  impossibil- 
ity of  even  trying;  she  was  too  weary;  weary  of  muddle,  weary 
of  herself.  There  was  no  plain  answer  to  anything  • —  in  her 
language;  no  answer  that  was  not  plain  —  in  Samson's.  So 
again  she  just  said,  replying  to  his  question:  "I  —  don't  — 
know." 

"  But  you  must  know." 

"  I  mean  —  you  wouldn't  understand,  even  if  I  told  you." 

"  There  ought  not  to  be  anything  to  tell.  A  good  wife  has 
nothing  to  tell  her  husband.  .  .  ." 

Deb  laughed  ironically  — "  Well,  and  I've  nothing  to  tell 
you,  so  it's  all  right." 

"  And  we  had  such  a  jolly  talk  —  and  laughed  —  and  sat  side 
by  side  —  and  no  harm  at  all,"  she  whispered  to  her  memory 
of  the  half-hour  on  the  balcony  with  Blair.  "  And  I  meant 
to  be  so  nice  to  Samson  ever  afterwards."  .  .  .  But  how  would 
Samson  interpret  a  confession  that  she  had  not  heard  him  tele- 
phoning, because  she  was  at  that  moment  visiting  Blair  Steven- 
son? It  would  be  rather  fun  to  hear  him  thunder  the  inevit- 
able accusations.  And  yet  —  and  yet  —  Deb  was  conscious 
that  she  had  rather  outgrown  this  sort  of  cheap  fun  —  out- 
grown masquerade  —  outgrown  rebellion.  She  wanted  her 
child,  Samson's  child,  to  be  born  in  this  harbourage  of  com- 
fort and  tenderness  and  soft  wrappings  and  people  to  make 
things  easy  —  yes,  even  the  Phillips  family.  After  all,  it 
would  be  a  Phillips'  infant;  and  they  were  kind  —  always  kind. 
She  could  not  face  the  shawl-and-cold-stone-step  business,  with 
a  baby  to  be  born  in  December.  Deb  looked  at  Samson,  her 
eyes  very  dark  and  grave.  .  .  .  Should  she  propitiate  him? 
If  this  time  —  then  for  always.  Can  you  do  it,  Deb?  Kick 
away  indecision  and  folly  and  petulance,  little  passions  and  the 
big  passion?  ..."  Suppose  I  went  to  Blair  altogether,  as  he 
has  asked  me  to  come?  "...  And  for  the  kiddie  —  what? 
No  Man's  Land  again,  a  thousand  times  worse  than  her  own 


350  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

experience  of  the  between-region;  the  outer  edge  of  things; 
no  established  identity.  .  .  .  What  was  the  old  game  they  used 
to  play  at  Daisybanks?  She  and  Richard  and  the  Rothenburg 
children? — Touch  Wood  .  .  .  Touch  Wood  .  .  .  and  (tri- 
umphantly) "Home!  "...  But  oh,  the  awful  dogged  exhaus- 
tion of  being  chased  without  a  blessed  knowledge  of  "  home  " 
to  be  gained  at  a  dash. 

Deb  made  up  her  mind. 

Then  she  crossed  the  room  to  her  husband,  and  put  both  her 
arms  round  his  neck  —  he  was  looking  more  than  ever  like  Oli- 
ver Cromwell,  with  his  features  set  into  those  harsh  lines  —  and 
propitiated  him.  Whispered  futile  childish  explanations  of 
her  conduct  the  night  before  .  .  .  dawdling  about  in  her  room 
till  late  —  knew  she  was  naughty  to  dawdle  —  didn't  care!  — 
heard  the  'phone  bell  and  was  too  lazy  to  go  down  to  answer 
it.  .  .  .  "Didn't  know  it  was  you,  Samson  .  .  .  please! 
Thought  it  was  Marty  being  cross  at  the  other  end  'cos  I  was 
keeping  them  all  waiting  .  .  .  Sorry!  very  sorry  .  .  .  Oh,  do 
pull  out  those  furrows  on  each  side  of  your  mouth  —  one  could 
grow  potatoes  in  them.  .  .  .  Samson,  don't  you  believe  me?  " 
Head  snuggling  and  rubbing  his  cheek 

It  was  so  much  less  bother  this  way  —  the  way  of  least  resist- 
ance. Anyhow,  she  had  started  all  wrong,  years  ago,  from 
the  very  beginning.  Let  others  beat  out  the  pioneer  track  — 
hers  to  make  "  home  "  for  the  little  daughter.  "  Touch  Wood," 
"  Touch  Wood  " —  and  already  Samson  was  smiling  at  her, 
fondling  her  ear.  ...  He  did  not  quite  believe  her;  he  would 
recur  to  his  suspicions  later  on;  but  for  the  moment  Deb's 
sweet  ways  had  placated  him.  He  thought:  "She  is  grow- 
ing ever  so  much  more  tractable,  with  happiness.  .  .  ." 


I 


CHAPTER    III 


''"JP'VE  come  to  say  good-bye,"  David  Redbury  explained 
jubilantly  to  La  llorraine;  "  the  Jewish  regiment  sails  to- 
morrow, and  I've  dragged  this  fellow  out  to  see  me 
through  my  farewell  visits,"  indicating  Richard,  who  leant  in 
the  doorway  of  the  drawing-room  with  "  buck-up-and-get-it- 
over  "  expressed  in  every  reluctant  line  of  his  figure. 

"  He's  steadier  than  I  am,  you  know,  and  one  is  liable  to 
make  such  wild  strange  promises  on  these  occasions.  Suppos- 
ing, for  instance,  Madame,  that  I  were  to  send  for  you  the 
minute  the  war  is  over,  and  I  pitch  my  tent  by  the  shores  of 
Jordan  .  .  .  would  you  come?  " 

"  I  say  to  you,  my  dee-urr,"  and  the  prima-donna,  in  an 
incongruously  correct  sports-shirt,  collar  and  tie,  smiled  whim- 
sically over  her  owlish  spectacles  at  his  gallantry;  "I  say  to 
you  vot  I  zay  to  zat  ozzer  little  fellow  I  see  last  night  at  the 
Tube  corner  —  ah,  he  was  a  beauty,  that  one,  with  the  skin  of 
a  peach  .  .  .  and  he  watch  me  a  little,  I,  in  my  black  gown 
and  my  black  hat,  very  tall,  very  femme  du  monde  —  you 
see  it?  And  he  say  to  himself — '  It  is  for  the  first  time  I  ad- 
venture—  perhaps  one  wiz  experience?  —  I  learn  somsing  — 
Better  so.  Vot  should  I  wit  a  pretty  flapper,  and  she  so  inno- 
cent and  I  so  ignorant  —  Awful!  A  desperate  affair.'  So  I 
watch  him  make  that  reflection.  And  presently  he  move  closer 
sideways,  and  he  make  his  little  proposition.  .  .  .  And  I  put 
my  two  hands  on  his  shoulders,  surprising  him.  And  I  say: 
'  My  boy  —  you  are  moch  too  yoimg  —  and  I  am  moch  too  old 
...  is  it  not  so?  '  " 
Her  deep,  hearty  laugh  rang  infectiously.     Even  Richard 

351 


352  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

joined  in,  and  Manon,  albeit  not  quite  sure  whether  the  mother 
of  Mrs.  Dolph  Carew  ought  not  to  recoil  with  more  dignity 
from  these  trifling  incidentals  of  dusk  and  Tube  corners.  As 
for  David,  he  vowed  she  was  adorable. 

"Ah,  but  the  Comtesse  —  there  is  one!  Vonderful!  You 
vait  and  see  her?  Yes?  She  lonch  with  me  today  —  her 
birthday.  ...  I  tell  you,  a  great  affair.  We  all  lunch  to- 
gether?    And  you,  who  lof  that  Continent  of  ours,  you  shall 

eat "     She  whispered  to  David,  her  arm  encircling  his 

khaki;  his  thin  face  vivid  with  appreciative  reminiscence,  as  she 
reeled  off  the  names  of  what  Richard  emphatically,  but  in 
silence,  registered  as  "  foreign  muck." 

The  Comtesse  arrived,  and  La  llorraine,  shedding  all  bour- 
geoise  preoccupation  with  the  menu,  welcomed  her  as  an  exiled 
ambassadress  welcomes  exiled  royalty. 

The  two  ladies  kissed  a  great  many  times,  with  rapid  inter- 
change of  cheeks,  and  uttering  staccato  exclamations;  and 
then  held  each  other  a  short  way  off  for  mutual  and  admiring 
survey. 

The  Comtesse  was  large,  and  wore  a  black  picture  hat  on  her 
crude  vermilion  chevelure;  a  mustard-coloured  coat  and  skirt, 
and  a  pink  ninon  blouse  crossed  by  a  spray  of  limp  cotton 
poppies  that  looked  as  though  they  had  passed  their  lives 
pressed  close  to  a  stiff  shirt-front.  She  exhausted  so  much 
space  in  her  vicinity,  magnetically  as  well  as  materially,  that 
her  fellow-beings  were  wont  to  move  some  distance  away  to 
avoid  being  absorbed  by  suction. 

"  My  dee-urr,"  said  La  llorraine  solemnly.  "  Never  —  never 
—  never  haf  I  seen  you  looking  so  well  as  in  that  blouse.  .  .  ." 

She  introduced  David  and  Richard  with  a  great  deal  of 
ceremonial;  and  the  Comtesse  put  her  hand  to  her  heart  and 
gasped  that  they  both  reminded  her  of  Antoine,  mon  fits. 
"  That  one,  in  particular,"  indicating  David,  "  is  his  living 
image.     I  vow,  he  might  be  his  brother," 

"  I  rejoice  that  is  not  the  case,  Madame,  since  it  would  deny 
the  possibility  of  any  more  gallant  relationship  between  you 
and  me." 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  353 

"  Mon  Dieu  —  quel  gargon!  "  the  Comtesse  delightedly 
flicked  him  across  the  cheek.  And  Richard  marvelled  at  his 
friend's  fluent  impudence.  But  this  was  the  atmosphere  in 
which  David  revelled. 

The  company  sat  down  to  lunch,  and  La  llorraine  apologized 
with  sad  dignity  for  her  so  humble  apartment  and  for  inade- 
quacy of  service.  Generously  the  Comtesse  reassured  her  that 
where  loyally  and  ancient  friendship  existed,  the  third  footman 
might  quite  well  be  lacking.  Then  reverting  to  the  question 
of  the  blouse  — 

"  I  am  broken-heart,"  the  Comtesse  announced  dramatically; 
"  I  can  wear  it  not.  It  is  over  —  done  —  finish.  Behold !  I 
throw  it  away!  " 

"  Tell  me,"  La  llorraine  spoke  in  deep  sympathy,  but  re- 
straining the  outflung  hand  from  more  positive  operation  in  the 
direction  of  the  ninon  blouse  — "  what  is  it,  then,  has  hap- 
pened? " 

"  It  shows  the  camisole  —  you  see  —  it  show  it  everywhere. 
Elsewhere  but  in  this  country  what  do  I  care?  But  my  durr- 
ling,  I  have  a  lowndress  " —  and  the  Comtesse  dropped  her 
voice  to  a  curdling  whisper — "  a  lowndress?  — -No.  She  is  a 
vipere  .  .  ." 

"Ha!  "  The  other  prima  donna  sprang  to  her  feet,  gal- 
vanized into  opposition  melodrama  by  the  word  "  laundress  " — 
"You  say  lowndress? — Look  hee-urr!  " — Oblivious  of 
Manon,  David,  and  Richard,  she  wrenched  open  her  blouse,  as 
Cleopatra  might  have  done  to  reveal  the  bite  of  the  asp.  The 
Comtesse  leant  forward:  "And  look!  "  She  was  holding  out 
her  blouse  tautly  from  her  bosom,  leaving  a  gap,  down  which 
La  llorraine  peered.  ..."  Ah-h-h  .  .  .  yes,  it  is  so  .  .  .  they 
are  in  a  conspiracy  —  I  say  it !  ...  they  destroy  —  they  have 
no  reverence  for  lace  —  for  embroidery  —  for  the  terruly  artis- 
tic lingerie !  —  to  zem  it  is  all  calico  wiz  —  what  is  it  the  jeune 
fille  wear  in  this  England?  —  calico  wiz  edging  —  advertised 
'durable!'"  Scorn  quivered  to  a  climax,  and  slowly  sub- 
sided; La  llorraine  and  the  Comtesse  sank  back  into  their  sep- 
arate chairs,  and  looked  about  them,  gently  smiling. 


354  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  This  sauce  is  of  an  excellence,"  said  the  Comtesse. 

"  Oh,  my  dee-urr,"  La  llorraine  deprecated. 

"  My  pauvre  Antoine  desires  in  his  last  letter  to  be  remem- 
bered to  you  and  to  Mademoiselle  votre  fille,"  the  Comtesse 
recollected,  sinking  into  melancholy  over  the  message  to 
Manon;  Antoine,  it  might  be  gleaned  by  the  exchange  of  looks 
between  the  two  elder  ladies,  cherished  a  hopeless  but  entirely 
respectful  passion  for  the  erstwhile  ingenue.  He  was  nineteen, 
decadent  and  penniless  .  .  .  nevertheless.  La  llorraine  had 
long  regarded  him  as  a  factor  in  her  "  plans  "  for  the  safe 
bestowal  of  her  daughter  into  matrimony;  plans  only  relegated 
into  hasty  obscurity  by  Dolph's  sudden  accession  to  his  uncle's 
wealth. 

"  I  have  brought  his  letter."  His  mother  read  aloud  a  few 
sentences  that  breathed  such  fervent  affection  for  herself,  and 
such  rapt  adoration  for  la  patrie,  that  Richard  turned  crimson 
at  the  young  Frenchman's  lack  of  churlish  restraint,  and  David, 
catching  sight  of  his  agony,  chuckled  evilly.  ..."  What's  the 
matter,  Marcus?  " 

Manon  subtly  gave  the  mother  of  Antoine  to  understand  that 
she  would  not  object  at  any  opportunity  that  offered,  to  renew 
her  acquaintance  with  the  young  man,  from  a  purely  matronly 
standpoint  ..."  perhaps  I  may  be  of  use  to  him.  .  .  ." 

The  mother  of  Antoine,  with  equal  subtlety,  gave  Manon  to 
understand  that  the  young  man  realized  he  would  find  her  more 
accessible  —  and  of  more  use  to  him  —  now  than  as  a  strictly 
chaperoned  ingenue;  and  would  therefore  pay  his  respects  to 
her  on  his  very  first  leave,  if,  of  course,  agreeable  to  Monsieur 
Dolph  Carew.  .  .  . 

And  La  llorraine  twinklingly  sanctioned  this  appointmerrt. 
Had  not  Manon  skilfully  piloted  herself  into  marriage,  at  an 
early  age?  thereby  proving  herself  far  more  discreet  and  com- 
petent than  any  of  these  English  girls,  sailing  chartless  through 
their  late  twenties.  Manon  could  be  trusted  to  handle  such 
agreeable  little  interludes  in  matrimony  as  Antoine  might  pro- 
vide. "  It  is  only  natural  zat  my  child  should  now  vant  that 
good  time,"  reflected  La  llorraine,  in  exact  reversal  of  the  argu- 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  355 

ment  of  Ferdinand  Marcus  —  but  virtue  before  marriage,  and  a 
good  time  after,  was  Continental  fashion. 

A  small  joint  of  veal  appeared  on  the  table.  Veal  was 
scarce  at  this  time,  and  the  hostess  received  as  no  more  than 
her  due  the  anticipatory  smiles  of  the  Comtesse.  "  But  what 
success,"  she  murmured.  The  first  slice  was  carved  .  .  .  and 
tragedy  fell  like  a  dark  mantle  upon  the  scene. 

"  It  is  almost  raw,"  exclaimed  Manon,  shaping  prevalent 
conviction  at  last  into  speech. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  her  mother  in  a  tone  ominously  quiet, 

"But  what  matter!  "  cried  the  Comtesse  hectically. 

La  llorraine  stood  looking  down  upon  the  pink  flesh  among 
the  gravy.  She  held  the  carvers  in  her  hand,  which  suddenly 
she  upraised  in  denunciation  towards  the  ceiling. 

"That  woman!  That  char-r-r!  I  swear  it  —  we  part,  she 
and  I  —  but  at  once.  In  this  house  she  shall  not  eat  again. 
Heart-breaking;  unthinkable.  I  have  been  good  to  her.  .  .  . 
Ven  her  fourth  durrty  baby  had  ze  pebbles  —  Bah,  one  does 
not  speak  of  these  trifles!  I  ask  her  in  return:  Prepare  me 
this  little  loin  of  veal  with  care.  Let  it  be  just  brown  .  .  . 
with  stuffing  —  so !  —  the  stuffing  I  made  with  my  own  hands. 
My  dee-urr,  should  I  be  ashamed  of  it !  I  who  thought  to  make 
you  pleasure.  .  .  .  You  who  spoke  to  me  of  how  difficult  to 
buy  veal.  .  .  .  Ah!  I  remember  —  and  I  bring  it  home  zis 
morning,  I  smile,  I  am  a  little  triumphant  —  why  not?  it  is 
after  all  an  occasion,  that  you  come  to  eat  here  in  my  poor 
apartments  —  I  desire  to  do  you  honour  —  And  that  woman  — 
she  spoil  it  all.  She  shall  fly.  Raw  meat!  My  dee-urr,  it  is 
an  insult  to  you,  my  guest.  .  .  ." 

The  Comtesse  strove  to  calm  her,  to  rally  her  from  ferocious 
gloom. 

"  Durr-ling,  see  —  eet  is  not  so  bad.  I  eat  some  .  .  .  wiz 
pleasure.  True  that  I  cannot  bear  the  meat  underdone,  I  shud- 
der at  it  —  but  your  thought  of  me  was  everything.  It  brings 
the  tears.  See,  I  eat  some  more  of  it.  .  .  .  We  haf  had  to  put 
up  with  moch,  by  this  c-r-ruel  war.  Sit  down  then,  chere  llor- 
raine, and  today  in  a  week  you  shall  dejeuner  with  me  in  my  lit- 


356  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

tie  flat  —  my  chef,  Ludovici,  shall  be  specially  instructed  —  he 
fails  me  never,  Ludovici  —  so  devoted  is  he.  Cherie,  you 
should  keep  men,  rather  than  these  char-rr-women.  I  say  it 
to  you.  It  is  shame  to  spoil  good  veal.  .  .  .  But,"  after  a 
pause,  and  with  forced  sprightly  enthusiasm,  "how  excellent 
are  the  potatoes!  " 

"  It  is  from  your  noble  heart  that  you  speak,"  cried  La 
llorraine.     And  embraced  her  friend. 

n 

"Aren't  they  luscious?  "  David  chuckled,  as  he  and  Rich- 
ard walked  down  Edgware  Road. 

"  'Um.  You  like  these  rum  people,  don't  you?  It  struck 
me  the  two  old  women  kicked  up  a  lot  of  silly  fuss  about  the 
veal,  that's  all." 

"And  what  sort  of  people  does  your  Unappreciative  High- 
ness consider  an  improvement  on  La  llorraine  and  the  Com- 
tesse?  " 

"The  sensible  sort  —  like  the  Dunnes.  I'm  going  to  stay 
Tvith  'em  next  week.  Grev's  home,  training  for  the  R.N.A.S. 
And  young  Frank's  just  out  of  Osborne." 

"  Here  —  get  on  this  Oxford  Circus  bus  —  I  want  to  buy 
presents  for  everybody  this  afternoon,  to  love  me  by  when  I'm 
gone.  You  can  help  me  choose  —  you  have  such  taste  and  or- 
iginality, dear  Richard!  " 

"Feeling  lively,  aren't  you?"  grunted  Richard,  as  they 
climbed  to  the  top  of  the  bus.  A  shower  of  rain  had  washed 
the  two  rows  of  seats  empty  for  them. 

"  So  would  you  be,  if  you'd  got  rid  of  a  nightmare  like 
mine.  .  .  ." 

"  'M  yes  —  I  know  something  about  getting  rid  of  night- 
mares." This  was  the  black  September  of  his  eighteenth  birth- 
day, but  Deb  had  saved  him.  ...  At  any  moment  now,  he 
might  expect  to  hear  from  Samson  that  he  was  exempt  from 
internment,  and  eligible  to  enlist.  So  Richard  was  in  high 
spirits  as  well,  though  they  did  not  leap  and  exult  and  fling 
themselves  about  and  glitter  into  speech  as  uncontrollably  as 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  357 

did  David's.  David  was  in  quicksilver  mood  on  the  eve  of  his 
embarkation  for  Palestine. 

"  Just  not  to  be  ordered  to  kill  Jews.  Men  with  faces  like 
mine,  and  exquisitely  humorous  noses  like  mine.  ...  I  used 
to  lie  awake  and  think  of  it  .  .  .  the  rush  into  the  opposite 
trench,  and  my  rifle  in  the  stomach  of  another  Jew,  tugging  at 
it  to  get  it  out  —  get  it  out  .  .  .  while  he  looked  at  me  —  with 
my  own  eyes.  .  .  .  Well,  thank  God,  I  shall  be  spared  that,  at 
least!  " 

"  I  don't  suppose  they'd  have  massed  all  the  German  Jews 
there  are,  in  the  bit  of  trench  opposite  yours,"  Richard  argued. 

"  One  would  have  been  enough,  thanks,"  grimly.  "  I 
wouldn't  have  minded  laying  in  among  those  swaggering  Prus- 
sian crop-heads  who  have  always  shoved  the  Jews  ofif  the  pave- 
ment .  .  .  but  it  does  make  a  difference  in  war  whom  one 
fights." 

"  Don't  see  it." 

David  laughed :  "  I  might  have  known  that  even  Richard 
the  Second  has  his  limitations!  "  and  indeed  Richard's  later- 
born  understanding  of  things  below  the  surface  had  thickened 
somewhat  again  during  his  past  year  of  reprieve. 

The  conductor  came  round ;  and  David  said,  "  I'll  stand  the 
ice-cream  if  you'll  stand  the  fares." 

"  Right.     Lend  me  some  coppers  then,  till  I  change  a  quid." 

David  had  only  half-a-crown,  and  the  conductor  handed 
Richard  back  two  and  fourpence.  David  eyed  the  coins  mourn- 
fully. .  .  .  "And  'e  didn't  pay  for  ze  tr-ram  fares,"  he  sang, 
in  imitation  of  a  music-hall  Hebrew  comedian.  *'  I  foresee 
much  trouble  hereafter  over  these  reckonings.  Look !  "  with  a 
sudden  wild  lurch  to  starboard — "No  —  not  there,  you  ass! 
Chalked  on  the  pavement !  " 

"'British  troops  across  the  Jordan' — that's  good  going!  " 

"  And  he  says  '  that's  good  going !  '  He  says  it  stolidly,  as 
though  it  were  British  troops  across  the  Regent's  Canal  — 
Man,  man,  where's  your  imagination?  The  names  —  the  an- 
cient names  —  don't  they  fire  you  at  all?  Jerusalem!  Beer- 
sheba!     Gaza!     Mount     Sinai!     The     Red     Sea!  .  .  .  Why 


358  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

they're  our  history  —  ours.  They  call  like  trumpets.  And  to 
think  I  shall  be  out  there  among  it  all  in  a  few  weeks.  Deal- 
ing blows  for  my  own  land !  Richard,  it  —  it  drives  me 
crazy.  .  .  ." 

David's  eyes  were  a  blaze  of  bright  brown;  his  mouth 
trembled  — "  Doesn't  it  excite  you  that  the  Jews  are  going  to 
win  back  the  Holy  Land  for  the  Jews?  —  it  must  excite  you," 
he  pleaded. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  a  Zionist." 

"  I  am  —  and  this  war  ought  to  have  made  you  a  Zionist  as 
well. —  Come  along,  we  get  off  at  this  corner. —  Hasn't  it  proved 
incontestably  that  you've  got  to  have  some  place  to  be  patriotic 
about,  if  you're  to  be  patriotic  at  all?  The  English  have  had 
one  spasm  of  illumination  by  which  they  saw  that;  and  so  the 
Jewish  regiment  was  foimed,  and  so  they're  going  to  give  us 
back  Palestine,  after  the  war.  .  .  .  Israel  for  the  Israelites  — 
and  our  gratitude  to  England.  .  .  ."  David  leapt  on  to  the 
pavement,  walked  along  for  a  few  moments  in  silence,  and  then 
said  in  his  most  matter-of-fact  voice  — "  They  shall  learn  that 
the  Jew  can  give  his  pound  of  flesh  as  well  as  claim  it." 

"  They  want  to  get  rid  of  you  —  and  that's  the  whole  spasm," 
Richard  chaffed  the  enthusiastic  young  Zionist  — "  Fed  up  with 
the  Chosen  Race  —  too  clever  by  half." 

But  David  was  in  too  radiant  a  humour  to  be  baited.  He 
merely  declaimed  in  answer  to  the  taunt: 

"  A  Prince  without  a  sword, 
A  Ruler  without  a  Throne; 
Israel  follows  her  quesL 
In  every  land  a  guest. 
Of  many  lands  a  lord. 
In  no  land  King  is  he. 
But  the  fifth  Great  River  keeps 
The  secret  of  her  deeps 
For  Israel  alone, 
As  it  was  ordered  tb  be.  .  .  ." 

"  Not  a  gleam  of  response?  Not  one?  "  staring  at  his  com- 
panion's   impassive    features.     "  That's    Kipling,    you    know. 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  359 

You  ought  to  be  chockful  of  him  —  Shall  we  have  ice-cream 
sodas  at  Fuller's  now,  or  shop  first?  " 

"  Fuller's  now,"  briefly  emphatic.     And  they  marched  in. 

"  Yes,  Kipling  ought  to  be  the  god  of  your  budding  manli- 
ness: burly  and  brutal  and  blustering,  and  hit-the-bloody-nail- 
on-its-blasted-head  ...  all  that.  I  expect  you've  got  '  If ' 
pinned  up  over  your  washstand,  haven't  you?  " 

"Not  keen.  (Raspberry,  please  .  .  .)  Some  poetry's  not 
bad.     I  like  Rupert  Brooke." 

"  Not  never  you  don't?  You  are  a  little  bundle  of  sur- 
prises. .  .  . 

"Here  am  I,  sweating,  sick  and  hot, 
And  there  the  shadowed  waters  fresh 
Lean  up  to  embrace  the  naked  flesh. 

Temperamentvoll  German  Jews  — 

Drink  beer  around." — 

Yes,  he's  a  poet  right  enough.  How  he  makes  one  feel  all 
his  ache  for  the  cool  glimmer  of  an  English  stream  —  his  loath- 
ing of  fat  bodies,  and  the  wheezy  moist  voices  and  the  sun  flash- 
ing on  the  curve  of  their  beaks?  " 

"Can  you  understand  that  bit?  Good  Lord,  how  funny! 
Should  have  thought " 

"  What?  "  David's  eyes,  brimful  of  suppressed  amusement, 
met  Richard's  over  the  rim  of  his  glass. 

"  Should  have  thought  it  would  have  ofi"ended  you.  What 
the  deuce  are  you  laughing  at  no\\r,  Redbury?  I'm  glad  you 
don't  sail  for  Palestine  every  tomorrow.  .  .  .  You're  all  over 
the  place;  like  Deb  used  to  be  before  a  party.  Here  —  no  — " 
as  the  bill  was  laid  beside  them;  "  I  want  change  for  a  pound 
to  pay  you  back  for  the  'bus.  You  can  square  with  me  over 
this  afterwards." 

The  change  was  brought;  eighteen  shillings.  Richard  gave 
the  waitress  fourpence  in  coppers.  ..."  Come  along." 

"  That  was  my  fourpence,"  said  David.  "  You  had  no  cop- 
pers in  your  pocket.  It  was  over  from  the  half-crown  I  lent 
you  on  the  'bus  to  stand  me  my  fare.    This  is  going  to  be  a 


360  DEBATABLE   GROUTMD 

serious  business  in  settling  up,  Marcus.  It  ought  to  be  at- 
tended to  at  once." 

"  Quite  simple;  if  I  borrowed  half-a-crown,  as  you  say " 

"If?     You  did." 

"  And  I  pay  your  penny  fare  as  well  as  my  own,  then  I  owe 
you  two  and  f ourpence " 

"  No,  you  don't.  You  owe  me  two  and  six.  No,  two  and 
eight.  My  own  original  half-crown  and  twopence  for  the 
fares." 

"  Why  should  I  pay  you  twopence  for  the  fares  —  you're  not 
the  'bus  conductor?  Two-and-four  I  owe  you.  I  can't  give 
you  the  f ourpence  —  I've  just  given  it  away,  and  I've  no  more 
small  change.     Here's  two  bob  and  I  owe  you  fourpence." 

"  You're  all  wrong,  my  lad.  Think  you  can  teach  a  Jew? 
I'll  argue  my  rights  to  the  last  half-penny,  if  I  have  to  take  you 
along  to  Palestine  to  do  it." 

"  Argue  away,"  grinned  Richard. 

"  You  were  to  pay  the  'bus  fares,  and  I  the  ice-cream  sodas. 
That  was  the  bond.  A  confoundedly  generous  bond,  consider- 
ing you  wolfed  two,  and  they're  eightpence  now." 

"  The  quantity  was  not  nominated  in  the  bond.     Go  on." 

"  If  you  pay  the  'bus  twopence,  mine  and  yours,  out  of  your 
own  money,  then  it's  palpably  unjust  to  deduct  it  from  the  half- 
crown  I  lent  you,  and  only  pay  me  back  two  shillings  and  owe 
the  fourpence.     See  that?  " 

"  But  you  lent  it  to  me  to  pay  with."  Richard  did  mistily 
perceive  the  point  David  was  belabouring,  but  could  not  bother 
to  focus  it  sharply. 

"  Only  till  you  got  some  change  of  your  own.  You've  got 
it  now." 

"  Well,  but  .  .  .  then  you  owe  me  for  the  ice-cream  sodas, 
they  were  to  be  your  affair." 

"  Granted.  Two  shillings,  and  subtract  the  twopence  and 
the  half-crown  and  fourpence  for  the  waitress  that  you  owe  me 
—  leaves " 

"  Hi  —  hold  on !  We  halve  the  waitress.  Might  as  well  do 
things  properly  now  we're  at  it." 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  361 

"Twopence  for  your  share  of  the  waitress;  add  that  to  my 
fourpence  you  gave  her.  .  .  ." 

"  Why?  " 

"Why  what?" 

"That  makes  sixpence.  We  didn't  give  her  sixpence. 
You're  trying  to  swindle  me,  Redbury,  because  my  wits  are 
slower  than  yours  .  .  ." 

"  When  are  the  wits  of  the  Gentile  not  slower  than  ours?  " 
laughed  David.     "  The  Gentile  must  pay." 

"  Don't  forget  that  this  is  only  half  a  Gentile.  Where  were 
we?  Let's  begin  all  over  again.  You  owe  me  two  and  two- 
pence for  ice-cream  sodas  and  a  bit  of  waitress:  that  clear?  " 

"  Hang  on  to  it.  Then  you  owe  me  half-a-crown,  and  two- 
pence for  fares,  and  twopence  for  a  bit  of  waitress,  and  four- 
pence  more." 

"  It's  that  fourpence  always  cropping  up.  I  don't  see  where 
it  comes  from." 

"  You  took  it  from  my  half-crown  to  pay  the  waitress." 

Richard  looked  so  worried  that  David  burst  out  laughing. 

" '  Shylock,  shall  we  have  moneys?  '  Come  on,  don't  give 
in;  this  is  rather  sport." 

"  Sport !  .  .  .  Look  here,  let's  leave  it  all  where  it  is,  we're 
neither  of  us  much  out  of  pocket." 

"  Leave  it  all  where  it  is !  "  scornfully.  "  Small  wonder  the 
Hebrew  wearieth  of  the  slack  and  foolish  stranger,  and  desires 
greatly  a  nation  of  his  own  kith  and  blood." 

"  You'll  get  jolly  well  fed  up  with  your  own  kith  and  blood, 
when  you  can't  cheat  'em  like  the  slack  and  foolish  stranger." 

"  We'll  have  to  import  a  few  of  you  for  the  express  pur- 
pose." 

It  struck  Richard  that  though  David  in  this  wrangle  was  call- 
ing attention  to  his  own  racial  characteristic  only  to  buffoon 
it,  yet  there  was  a  sub-stratum  of  seriousness  too,  in  his  laugh- 
ing persistence. 

"  I  suggest,"  said  David,  "  that  as  we  are  sadly  incapable  of 
adjusting  the  matter  in  our  head  —  after  eight  years'  public 
school  instruction  in  higher  mathematics  —  that  we  reconstruct 


362  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

as  we  go  along,  passing  the  money  to  and  fro  till  we  get  it 
right.     Now  .  .  .  we're  on  the  'bus  again.     You  pay !  " 

"  Lend  me  half-a-crown,"  said  Richard  obediently. 

*'  Give  me  back  my  half-crown  to  lend  you,  then." 

"  That  didn't  come  in,  on  the  'bus." 

"  It's  coming  in  now !  "  David  made  a  grab  for  Richard's 
pocket  and  extracted  the  coin.  "  There  you  are,"  giving  it  to 
him;  while  Piccadilly  looked  on  astonished,  at  the  two  youths 
absorbedly  passing  money  to  and  fro  as  they  strolled  along  the 
pavement.  "  Now  you  give  it  back  to  me  unbroken  and  two- 
pence for  the  fares  .  .  .  that's  right,  isn't  it?  You  agreed  to 
pay  the  fares.     And  then  we  settle  up  my  little  debt." 

Slowly  Richard  passed  back  the  half-crown;  and  two  cop- 
pers. .  .  .  Thought  hard  for  a  moment  —  then,  with  a  yell, 
pounced  on  his  companion,  wrenched  his  fingers  open,  and 
extracted  the  pence.  .  .  . 

"  Got  it!  "  he  gasped.  "  So  that's  where  you  were  cheating 
me,  was  it?  Well,  I'm  damned!  I  pay  for  your  fares,  yes, 
but  I  don't  pay  them  to  you,  no.  Or  I'd  be  paying  'em  twice 
over.     Got  you,  David  Redbury!  " 

"Trustful  little  lad,  aren't  you?"  David  mocked  him  de- 
lightedly. "  How  long  did  it  take  your  homely  wits?  Twenty 
minutes.  And  we're  miles  past  the  shop  I  wanted.  Here's 
the  two  and  twopence  I  owe  you.  '  La  commedia  e  finita !  ' " 
he  sang  lustily  in  his  beautiful  tenor. 

"  Shut  up !     Don't  you  see  the  sandwichmen  are  shying." 

"  I've  got  to  get  farewell  presents  for  everybody,  you  in- 
cluded, Marcus.  What  would  you  like?  An  Old  Testament 
to  revive  your  slothful  patriotism  for  the  tribes  of  Israel?  — 
Burst  of  gratitude !  In  here,  then."  He  dragged  Richard  into 
Hatchard's ;  bought  the  Old  Testament,  and  forthwith  presented 
it  to  him;  chose  also  a  richly-embossed  W.  B.  Yeats  for  Nell; 
and  was  with  difficulty  dissuaded  from  a  selection  of  Carlyle's 
"  Frederick  the  Great "  as  a  tactful  gift  for  his  father.  Then, 
in  a  different  shop,  he  bought  a  rich  piece  of  Chinese  embroid- 
ery to  form  a  window  curtain  for  one  of  Beatrice's  rooms,  and 
a  scarf  for  Hedda.     Richard  was  amazed  at  his  certainty  of 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  363 

choice  among  the  vivid  colours  and  luxurious  sheeny  textures; 
as  well  as  his  delight  in  them.  His  personality  was  as  surely 
at  home  among  the  rich  Oriental  fabrics,  as  were  Richard  and 
the  vendor  obviously  incidental. 

" '  Not  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  arrayed  like  unto 
these,' "  murmured  David,  as  the  shopman  departed  with  the 
bill  and  a  five-pound  note.  "  Ever  heard  the  story  of  the  kid 
in  a  Jewish  school?  They  read  him  that  chapter,  and  then 
asked  him :  '  What  did  Solomon  say  when  the  Queen  of  Sheba 
tumbled  down  her  treasures  before  him?  '  '  Pleath,  teacher  — 
he  thed:    *  Vot  do  you  vant  for  de  lot?  '  " 

No  one  could  tell  a  Jewish  story  with  such  perfect  inflexion 
and  gesture  and  look,  as  David;  and  Richard's  appreciation 
echoed  through  the  department. 

"  Do  you  think  I  might  offer  the  Comtesse  a  little  tribute  in 
vermilion,  to  match  her  hair?  She  had  glorious  hair,  that 
woman.  In  two  long  plaits  and  a  pitcher  balanced  on  her 
head.  ...  I  shall  probably  send  for  her  when  I'm  established 
out  there  —  the  time  will  come  when  I  shall  long  for  the  relief 
of  a  snub  profile  to  gaze  at,  as  Rupert  Brooke  longed  for  Grant- 
chester.     She  shall  be  a  wife  to  me " 

"  A  wife?  " 

"  The  wife  shall  be  Rachel,  and  her  hair  will  be  dusky,  not 
vermilion;  and  her  throat  golden-brown.  And  she  shall  walk 
on  the  gold-brown  sand  so  that  the  pitcher  of  water  be  not  spilt 
of  a  single  drop.  You  know,  Richard,  most  of  our  lady 
friends  in  Hampstead  and  Maida  Vale  and  Bayswater  have 
grown  waddlesome  with  generations  of  menials  to  attend  them, 
so  that  they'll  have  to  practise  an  awful  lot  with  a  sort  of  wire- 
frame arrangement  on  their  heads,  before  they  can  balance  their 
pitchers  properly." 

"  Don't  believe  they'll  come  at  all.  A  lot  of  Zionists  I've 
heard  of  are  in  a  blue  funk  that  they'll  be  grabbed  against 
their  will  and  carried  kicking  aboard  the  Good  Ship  Jeru- 
salem." 

"  Set  upon  by  a  press-gang,  and  made  to  fag  for  us;  for  me, 
David,  King  of  Zion " 


364  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"King,  eh?     You're  going  it!  " 

"  You  shall  come  and  be  my  Grand  Vizier,  0  Richard." 

"  That's  the  Arabian  Nights.     Getting  mixed,  aren't  you?  " 

"  The  deadly  habit  of  accuracy  is  notably  confined  to  the  un- 
imaginative." 

Richard  grunted. 

"  With  you  beside  me  is  like  taking  a  stroll  with  a  portable 
farmyard." 

"  You  haven't  bought  anything  for  your  mother  yet." 

"  I  must  get  some  large-sized  silver  frames.  I  was  photo- 
graphed to  surprise  her  about  a  month  ago  —  they've  turned 
out  rather  well.  Beastly  nuisance  —  but  she  fretted  so,  having 
none  of  Con.  He  never  would  let  himself  be  taken.  ...  So 
she  shall  have  me  in  half  a  dozen  different  positions,  bless  her, 
just  in  case  —  not  that  she'll  care  about  the  whole  lot  like  the 
one  rotten  little  snapshot  of  Con  that  she's  always  poring  over 
...  but  still.  .  .  ." 

His  exuberance  was  for  a  moment  dulled. 

"  She's  having  such  a  rotten  time.  The  Guv'nor  has  put  his 
foot  down  over  any  more  correspondence  with  Aunt  Anna, 
this  last  year  —  just  as  if  it  would  affect  nations  if  two  sisters 
wrote  their  pathetic  loving  little  letters  to  tell  each  other  of 
their  sons  killed  and  the  hardship  of  getting  good  servants 
nowadays.  .  .  .  But  the  black  curtain  is  down  between  Hamp- 
stead  and  Berlin  now  —  and  Mum's  wondering  always  what  is 
going  on  behind  it."  He  was  silent  a  moment,  then  burst  out 
indignantly,  "  What  harm  can  he  possibly  suppose  it  would 

do "  and  left  the  sentence  unfinished.     But  Richard,  under 

"  he  "  was  flashed  a  complete  picture  of  Otto,  very  bilious,  very 
Jingo,  in  the  art  of  disciplining  Trudchen.  .  .  . 

"  People  are  queer  nowadays  .  .  ."  was  all  he  found  to  say. 

"  Queer  the  other  way  round,  too,"  David  said  thoughtfully. 
"  Would  any  country  in  all  the  world  but  England  ensure  that 
her  prisoners  of  war  be  fed  on  the  fat  of  the  land,  while  her  own 
people  want?  It's  a  sort  of  splendid  crack-brained  chivalry 
—  The  German  fellows  don't  understand  it;  makes  'era  laugh. 
It  is  highly  comic  when  you  come  to  think  of  it.  ...  '  For 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  365 

Allah  created  the  English  mad,  the  maddest  of  all  mankind !  '  " 

"  It's  the  old-established  tradition  of  chivalry  still  upheld 
by  officialdom.  I  doubt  if  it's  in  the  blood  of  the  people  any 
more;  they  grumble  about  it  —  call  it  treachery,  not  chivalry." 

"  Those  are  only  the  people  left  over,  not  the  fighters.  One 
learns  bad  habits  if  one  is  left  over.  .  .  .  I'm  glad  we're  both 
for  the  thick  of  it  now,  Richard." 

"Yes.  .  .  ." 

"  Is  it  all  right  for  you?     I  mean,  you're  sure " 

"  Phillips  promised.  I  haven't  heard  yet.  .  .  ."  But  he 
was  so  sure  that  he  said  quickly:  "Of  course  I  may  be  let 
down  any  moment,  in  fact,  I  suppose  I've  no  earthly 
chance " 

David  smiled  at  the  unconsciously  Jewish  trait  revealed  in 
the  semi-Jew:  the  instinct  that  is  afraid  to  trust  its  own  luck 
—  aloud ;  instinct  that  has  learnt  to  fear  the  duration  of  good 
luck,  and  thinks  to  propitiate  Jehovah  by  an  affectation  of  in- 
credulity. David  himself  had  behaved  in  this  fashion  since 
his  earliest  babyhood.  Victims  of  persecution  —  was  it  perse- 
cution or  justice  now  meted  out  to  Richard  and  his  like?  — 
children  of  No  Man's  Land.  ..."  Persecution  is  for  being 
something  wrong;  justice  for  doing  something  wrong,"  came 
to  David  in  a  flash  of  insight.  Nobody  could  help  being  —  all 
down  the  ages  .  .  .  Jews  —  niggers  —  slaves  —  Huguenots  — 
early  Christians  —  Saxon  serfs.  .  .  . 

"  I'm  going  to  take  a  taxi  home;  these  parcels  are  too  much 
for  me.     You  go  quite  a  different  way,  don't  you?  " 

"Yes.     G'bye." 

Richard  turned  quickly  and  walked  away  in  the  direction 
of  Hyde  Park  Corner.  He  was  suddenly  aware  of  David 
as  a  very  complete  element  in  his  life;  and  David  was  now 
withdrawn,  perhaps  for  ever,  in  all  his  lithe  embodiments  of 
radiance  and  melancholy,  of  profound  thought  and  mischievous 
ragging;  David  suffering  in  front  of  the  camera  because  he 
understood  how  his  mother  fretted  for  a  likeness  of  Con;  David 
reeling  out  names  off  the  map  of  Palestine  in  drunken  ecstasy 
at  their  associations;  David  savagely  ironic  over  his  father's 


366  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

Jingo  attitude;  David  playing  the  fool  over  twopence  in  the 
middle  of  Piccadilly.  .  .  .  Richard  wished  he  could  have  been 
called  up  at  the  same  time  as  David,  and  thus  have  slurred  over 
the  present  acute  sense  of  loneliness.  ..."  I'm  glad  we're 
both  for  the  thick  of  it  now,  Richard  " —  and  David  would  un- 
derstand why  he  had  not  lingered  over  leave-taking.  David 
could  be  relied  upon  to  understand  —  always. 

He  found  a  letter  from  his  brother-in-law,  Samson  Phillips, 
awaiting  him  at  Montagu  Hall.  It  related  briefly  that  Sir 
Ephraim  Phillips  had  done  his  utmost  in  the  matter  of  exemp- 
tion from  internment  in  Richard's  case;  but  in  view  of  the  fact 
that  he  was  German-born,  with  father  not  at  that  period  natur- 
alized, could  do  no  more  than  procure  the  alternative  that  he 
should  be  called  up  to  serve  in  the  Labour  Battalion 

"No,  by  God!" 

Richard  crumpled  up  the  sheet  in  his  hands,  and  flung  it 
violently  against  the  wall.  The  Labour  Battalion!  Soldiers 
who  were  not  allowed  to  carry  weapons?  Soldiers  who  were 
sent  to  the  Front  and  not  permitted  to  fight?  The  compro- 
mise was  ignominious.  .  .  .  And  David  had  said:  "I'm  glad 
we're  both  for  the  thick  of  it,  now,  Richard  .  .  ." 

It  was  all  right  for  David,  wholly  a  Jew.  "  I'm  not  going  to 
be  half  a  soldier,"  muttered  Richard.  Rather  internment  than 
be  tantalized  by  the  wear  of  khaki,  maddened  by  audible  gun- 
thunder.  Rather  internment  than  that  —  and  in  a  fortnight 
he  would  be  eighteen. 


A" 


CHAPTER    IV 


<'  j^  ND  would  it  he  indelicate  to  ask,"  said  Gillian, 
why  I'm  suddenly  invited  to  take  tea  with  you,  on 
lawns  of  sheer  respectability?  I'm  touched,  Deb, 
really  I  am;  I  even  left  some  jolly  little  fellows  from  the 
trenches  to  look  after  themselves,  while  I  toddled  off  here;  and 
I  bought  a  new  hat  on  the  way  —  d'you  like  it?  " 

"  It's  a  monstrosity,"  Deb  replied  frankly.  "  Take  it  off  at 
once,  somebody  might  see  you  in  it;  that's  better.  Why  didn't 
you  bring  your  wounded  soldiers?  " 

Gillian  looked  puzzled,  and  Antonia  explained  laughing: 
"The  jolly  little  fellows  from  the  trenches  are  not  what  you 
think,  Deb;  and  I  doubt  if  your  in-laws  would  approve  of  their 
presence  here  at  tea  —  it's  enough  for  a  start,  that  you  should 
be  allowed  to  invite  Gillian,  without  a  cortege  of  bacillian 
satellites.     How  was  she  finally  admitted?     I'm  curious,  too." 

"  My  husband  met  an  eminent  titled  specialist,  who  hap- 
pened to  mention  that  a  pamphlet  with  a  perfectly  ghastly 
name,  published  last  month  by  one  Gillian  Sherwood,  revealed 
one  of  the  most  brilliant  pieces  of  research  of  modern  times; 
and  that  the  whole  medical  and  scientific  world  were  in  a  state 
of  thrilled  awe  —  that  true,  Gillian?  " 

"  I  believe  so,"  modestly.  "  But  it's  nice  of  your  husband 
to  overlook  my  little  aside  from  virtue,  Deb." 

"  He  didn't  exactly  overlook  it,  you  know.  Samson  doesn't 
possess  the  art  of  overlooking.  He  walked  all  round  it,  breath- 
ing hard,  for  nearly  a  year;  and  then  hung  a  label  on  it:  '  Ec- 
centricity of  Genius.  Not  to  be  confounded  with  Fallen 
Woman.     So  please  don't  spit!  '" 

"Ass!  "chuckled  Gillian. 

"Lest  you  should  grow  proud,  I  may  mention  that  Mrs. 

367 


368  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

Dolph  Carew,  likewise  invited  to  tea  this  afternoon,  has  been 
and  gone,  that  she  might  not  have  to  meet  you,  Jill,  I  gather 
that  she's  having  a  demure  affair  on  the  Q.T.  with  a  certain 
Count  Antoine  .  .  .  but  some  women  flaunt  their  affairs  so 
shamelessly  in  the  face  of  the  world,  that  r-r-really,  my  dee-urr, 
one  can't  possibly  be  associated  with  them.  One  is  shocked, 
sorry  —  so  ter-r-ribly  sorry  .  .  .  but  the  good  Mrs.  Dolph  Ca- 
rew comes  to  tea  early  with  the  good  Mrs.  Samson  Phillips  — 
oh,  but  very  early " 

"  I'm  not  having  an  '  affaire,'  "  protested  Gillian.  "  Does 
that  little  careful  beast  Manon  imagine  that  I'm  a  cheap  French 
novel?  Deb,  Deb  darling,  did  you  tell  her  that  a  multitude  of 
hoary  professors  are  always  to  be  found  squatting  at  my  feet?  " 

"  Yes.  '  We  are  not  impressed.'  .  .  .  Hoary  professors 
aren't  Society,  after  all." 

Antonia  meditated :  "  We  might  put  Cliffe  on  to  the  story 
of  the  French  Count " 

"  Too  busy  with  Winnie  to  understudy  the  God  of  Vengeance 
just  at  present." 

"  Winnie?  " 

"  Cliffe?  " 

Gillian  nodded.  "  'M.  Last  night.  Quaint,  isn't  it?  You 
know,  she  always  had  a  queer  fascination  for  him  .  .  .  she  was 
so  placid  and  plump  —  and  he  so  gaunt  and  impetuous  ...  he 
used  to  try  and  try  and  try  to  rouse  her  to  some  display  of  emo- 
tion, till  he  went  gibbering  mad  with  failure  .  .  .  and  she 
just  lay  on  the  sofa.  I  used  to  watch  them.  So  at  last,  in  a 
sort  of  frenzy,  he  proposed  to  marry  her  —  and  she  really  was 
surprised.  Rather  surprised,  not  awfully.  She  said:  'Fancy. 
Did  you  ever.  What  things  you  do  say,  Cliffe!  '"  Gillian 
mimicked  the  slow,  fat  speech  of  Winifred  with  a  fidelity  that 
stirred  both  her  companions  to  mirth  .  .  .  though  Antonia  was 
very  white;  and  Deb's  lips  were  ruefully  curved:  If  Cliffe 
were  at  all  inclined  to  marry  ..."  then  why  not  me  —  at  the 
time?  "  half  laughing,  yet  wondering  a  little  how  Winifred 
Potter  had  succeeded  with  Cliffe  where  all  the  rest  of  them  had 
failed,  and  separately  summed  him  up  as  sexless  —  dear  old 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  369 

Cliffe  —  the  Uncle  type  —  a  flying  comet  through  their  lives. — 
"  And  he's  exuberantly,  fantastically  happy  in  his  choice,"  Gil- 
lian added,  innocent  of  sub-currents ;  "  so  am  I  and  Theo  — 
No  —  so  are  I  and  Theo.  .  .  .  That  doesn't  sound  right  either, 
does  it?  Theo  did  all  the  flirting  he  could  with  her,  in  about 
a  couple  of  hours  ...  So  far  and  no  further,  you  remember? 

—  and  then  it  bored  him  to  have  her  always  about  the  home. 
And  it  made  a  lot  of  extra  work  for  me  —  I'm  not  complaining 

—  but  just  mentioning  it,  now  it's  over.  Of  course  we  couldn't 
turn  her  out,  but  we're  speeding  up  the  nuptials  with  enthus- 
iasm. And  then  we  two  shall  be  alone  together  .  .  ."  softly. 
And  no  one,  seeing  her  eyes  and  her  mouth,  could  have  doubted 
the  success  of  her  pioneer  experiment  with  the  audacious  but 
unworthy  Greek. 

"  Does  Zoe  know?  " 

"About  ClifTe  and  Winnie?  I  don't  think  so.  I  expected 
she'd  be  here  this  afternoon." 

"  No,  she's  indispensable  to  the  War  Office  on  Monday  after- 
noons—  not  a  couple  of  loafers  like  you  —  you're  lucky  in 
your  Major-General,  Antonia,  he  always  seems  to  be  having 
bilious  attacks !  —  I  received  a  very  Zoe-esque  letter,  hinting  at 
a  fruitful  episode  in  a  cinema,  where  she  carelessly  put  her 
foot  up  on  the  seat  in  front  of  her  and  accidentally  left  it 
there  even  when  some  one  sat  down,  and  it  came  back  with 
a  note  inside  —  the  shoe,  I  mean  — saying  he  was  follement 
eperdu  of  the  pretty  ankle,  and  would  the  owner  meet  him,  etc." 

"  A  typical  Zoe  adventure,  French  and  all.  '  Men  may  come 
and  men  may  go,'  but  there  will  always  be  enough  for  our 
Zoe!  even  nowadays." 

"  After  all,  she  only  needs  as  many  as  there  are  doors  to  her 
flat,  and  one  over.     What  is  it,  Antonia?  " 

Antonia  said,  "There's  young  Nell  —  and  she  looks  .  .  . 
queer.'* 

n 

Nell  Redbury  walked  slowly  across  the  lawn  towards  the  tea- 
table  under  the  yellowing  chestnut  tree.     Arrived  there,  she 


370  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

stood,  mutely  awaiting  interrogation;  her  gaze  full  on  Gillian. 
.  .  .  Nobody  spoke;  the  three  elder  girls  felt  as  though  nipped 
and  held  in  the  pincers  of  tragedy,  and  each  one  was  afraid.  .  .  . 

"  I'm  going  to  have  a  baby,"  said  Nell  at  last,  in  the  stupid 
voice  of  a  child  repeating  a  lesson  she  has  not  quite  under- 
stood. "  The  doctor  said  so.  Mums  cried.  And  father  said 
I  was  not  to  come  home  any  more." 

"Is  that  all!  "  Gillian  almost  laughed  in  her  relief.  "Oh, 
you  lucky  little  devil  —  no,  I  don't  mean  that  —  you're  only 
a  kid  still  yourself,  and  it's  rather  rough  luck,  but  still  —  Who 
and  where's  the  infant  husband?     I  suppose  it's  Timothy?  " 

"Yes,"  Nell  answered  gravely,  but  still  standing  a  little 
aloof  from  the  tea-table.  "  But  he's  not  my  husband.  We  — 
I  —  thought  you  would  be  pleased." 

"  Because  I  did  it  myself?  "  Her  goddess  became  suddenly 
stern. 

"  Yes."  And  once  more  the  refrain,  "  I  thought  you  would 
be  pleased.  You  said  .  .  .  you  all  said.  .  .  .  I've  forgotten 
what  you  said,"  with  sudden  droop  to  weariness. 

"  Whatever  I  said  and  whatever  I  did,  wasn't  for  a  baby 
like  you,"  Gillian  brutally  informed  her,  in  a  double  effort  to 
vitalize  the  girl's  apathy  and  to  knock  her  own  conscience 
insensible.  "  I  may  have  said  that  where  marriage  is  im- 
possible, it's  better  to  do  the  other  thing  than  to  brood  and 
mope  .  .  .  but  in  your  case  marriage  is  possible;  possible 
and  natural  and  inevitable.  Especially  now.  .  .  .  There's  no 
earthly  or  heavenly  reason,  young  Nell,  why  you  and  Timothy 
should  put  yourselves  to  the  inconvenience  of  being  not  mar- 
ried, and  you're  jolly  well  going  to  be  shoved  through  the 
ceremony  the  very  first  moment  he  can  wangle  leave  and  come 
back." 

"  Yes,"  Nell  acquiesced  again.  And,  after  a  pause :  "  But 
he  won't  come  back.  It  was  in  the  paper  to-day.  .  .  .  They've 
killed  him." 

She  still  stood  a  little  way  off  from  the  group  at  the  tea- 
table,   staring  with  mournful   enquiry    at   Gillian,   who   had 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  371 

broken  down  in  a  fit  of  wild  sobbing.  Then,  lest  she  had  not 
been  understood,  she  repeated:  "The  doctor  says  I'm  going 
to  have  a  baby.     And  Mums  cried.     And  father  said " 

"  You  needn't  go  home,  my  dear,  my  dear.  .  .  .  You're  com- 
ing to  my  home  with  me.  It's  all  right  —  nothing  to  be  fright- 
ened of  —  I'm  going  to  look  after  you  .  .  .  yes,  both  of 
you "  It  was  Antonia  who  swept  to  Nell's  side  by  an  irre- 
sistible impulse,  had  gathered  her  strongly  in  her  arms,  and 
faced  round  on  the  other  two  with  a  look  that  challenged 
while  it  scorched. 

"  You're  neither  of  you  going  to  meddle  any  more  where  Nell 
is  concerned  —  haven't  you  done  enough  harm?  with  your  talk 
and  your  example  and  rubbish?  — No  one's  business  but  your 
own  what  you  do  with  your  life,  is  it,  Gillian?  —  is  it?  I  knew 
somebody  would  have  to  suffer  —  ancient  law  —  on  those  who 
break  the  laws  —  and  you  go  scot  free,  and  this  poor  kiddie. 
.  .  .  Oh,  damn  your  splendid  freedom,  and  your  new  era,  and 
your  mix-up  and  mess-up  of  everything  that's  clear  and  right  — 
time-tested.  Progress  —  is  this  your  statue  of  progress?" 
She  pointed  to  Nell  Redbury,  now  crumpled  forlornly  against 
the  older  girl's  tense  erect  body.  .  .  . 

"No  use  ranting  at  me,  Antonia;  I'm  terribly  responsible  in 
this  case,"  Gillian  acknowledged.  "  And  of  course  it's  my 
business,  not  yours,  to  take  Nell  home  and  look  after 
her " 

"  With  Theo  about  the  place?  " 

Gillian  was  silent.     And   Deb   interposed:      "She's  better 

with  Antonia,  Jill.     /  can't  give  her  shelter,  worse  luck " 

Samson,  she  knew,  would  show  no  mercy  in  this  crisis. 

Gillian  said  softly,  "  If  Theo  can  help.  .  .  ."  She  found  it 
difficult  to  put  into  words  her  conviction  that  Nell  was  only 
eighteen,  and  it  might  be  warmth  to  her  frozen  emotions  to 
have  it  conveyed  —  even  by  Theo  Pandos  —  that  men  were  still 
in  the  world  and  still  desiring  her  ...  a  wintry  gleam  of 
promise  for  the  future. 

But  it  was  heartless  to  translate  her  meaning  in  front  of 
Nell,  whose  chubby  serious  young  lover  was  only  just  dead. 


372  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

.  .  .  And  Antonia's  wrath  swept  out  again  like  a  banner  in  the 
wind: 

"  Theo  —  help?  isn't  he  as  promiscuous  as  the  rest  of  you  — 
as  Deb,  as  Cliffe  .  .  .  with  your  love-making  all  over  the  place 
.  .  .  sex  discussed  just  for  the  fun  of  it.  .  .  .  Deb  prattling 
about  the  waste  of  her  young  limbs  —  we  haven't  forgotten 
that  talk,  Nell  and  I.  .  .  .  Nell  hasn't  forgotten  it  to  some 
purpose.  .  .  .  Let's  all  live  our  own  lives  —  let's  all  live  some- 
body else's.  .  .  .  Well,  it's  been  a  merry  puddle-party  while 
it  lasted!  Come  on,  Nell,"  her  voice  sank  to  inexpressible 
tenderness.  Without  a  backward  glance,  she  supported  the 
quivering,  clinging  form  of  the  younger  girl  across  the  lawn 
and  through  the  garden  gate.  "  Taxi !  "  they  heard  her  clear 
call.     And  the  responding  grate  of  wheels  against  the  kerb. 

Their  departure  was  one  little  aspect  of  the  war:  woman 
perforce  dependent  upon  the  manlier  woman  .  .  .  while  out 
in  France  the  fatal  shrapnel  bullets  ripped  through  the  stagger- 
ing 'planes.  .  .  . 

Ill 

"  Deb,"  Gillian  lifted  an  appalled  white  face  from  burial  in 
her  palms ;  "  Deb,  she's  right.  Antonia's  right.  I'm  to  blame 
for  this  little  tragedy." 

"  So  am  L  We  all  talked  —  and  forgot  that  Nell  listened 
and  did  not  quite  understand." 

"  I  did  more  than  talk  .  .  .  with  the  result  that  Nell  is 
to  have  the  baby  I  wanted  and  denied  myself.  ...  It  seems 
that  I  couldn't  save  that  poor  little  love-child  from  birth, 
after  all!  But  surely  I  must  have  had  the  sense  to  say  there 
should  be  above  all  a  case  and  a  reason  before  girls  chucked 
marriage  to  the  winds.  .  .  .  What  possible  reason  could  those 
children  have  had  to  play  the  fool?  " 

"  The  individual  exception  is  beyond  Nell.  What  you  did 
was  good  —  to  her.  She  took  the  example  and  grafted  it 
promiscuously." 

"Antonia  called  us  all  fatally  promiscuous  .  .  .  but  An- 
tonia "  Gillian  hesitated.     "  Artemis  on  the  turn,"  she  re- 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  ^73 

marked  presently.  "  Deb  —  there's  a  time  when  virginity  in- 
evitably becomes  spinsterhood.  It's  rather  a  dangerous  time. 
.  .  .  Antonia  has  kept  fiercely  pure " 

"  Out  of  a  sort  of  protest  to  us.  .  .  ." 

"  Perhaps." 

"  What  a  muddle  we're  in,  Jill,  every  one  of  us,  since  we've 
left  the  old  track " 

"  We're  beating  onwards  into  the  open,  no  doubt  of  it.  But 
the  transition  period  can't  be  skipped,  like  a  dull  bit  of  history. 
There's  bound  to  be  a  generation  of  martyrs  between  the  old 
and  the  new.  In  whatever  context  of  development.  Educa- 
tion —  and  sex  —  and  religion  —  and  nationality "  she  de- 
bated silently  for  a  pause  of  time.  "  Yes  —  it  fits  in  each 
case.  .  .  ." 

Nationality.  .  .  .  Deb's  thoughts  flew  to  her  brother.  She 
was  anxious,  not  having  heard  from  him  or  seen  him  since 
Samson  had  written  that  letter  suggesting  the  compromise  of 
the  Labour  Battalion,  more  than  a  fortnight  ago.  And  to- 
morrow was  Richard's  eighteenth  birthday.  .  .  . 

"  It  will  be  all  right  for  the  next  generation.  Our  lot  are 
not  sure  yet  —  stumble  forwards  and  backwards  in  the  twilight 
—  let  go  of  established  tradition  before  they've  grasped  at  an 
equivalent  to  support  them.  And  some  of  us  must  be  sacri- 
ficed down  the  wrong  paths  to  prove  them  wrong.  .  .  ." 

"  Not  my  child,  anyway,"  Deb  cried  with  sudden  vehemence. 
"  She  sha'n't  be  a  victim  to  neither-nor.     One  of  us  is  enough." 

"  You'll  bring  her  up  in  the  old  way?  " 

"As  strictly  as  I  can,  right  and  wrong,  good  and  bad  .  .  . 
signposts  wherever  she  may  stop  and  wonder.  I'm  going  to 
superintend  her  morals;  I'm  going  to  say  'don't,'  and  I'm 
going  to  ask  questions,  and  forbid  her  things.  And  be  shocked 
whenever  it's  necessary  I  should  be  shocked " 

"  You  little  reactionary !  " 

"  Yes  ...  I  know.  Don't  mistake  me,  Gillian  —  I  believe 
it  best  to  be  first  thoughtful  and  then  courageous  —  as  you've 
been.  But  my  daughter  Naomi  —  I'm  quite  sure  it  is  to  be  a 
daughter  —  will  be  partly  a  Phillips;  handicapped  from  the 


374  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

start.  Samson  is  at  least  a  generation  behind  even  the  transi- 
tion period.     He's  almost  extinct.     And  he'll  be  her  father." 

"Meaning  that  if  you  marry  the  jailer  of  a  prison,  it  saves 
trouble  to  bring  up  the  child  as  a  convict?  " 

"  If  Naomi  rebels,  she'll  be  up  against  it.  ...  I  want  her 
to  be  happy.  Oh,  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  her  muddling  and  ex- 
perimenting as  I've  muddled  and  experimented;  a  failure  as 
I've  failed.  She  must  learn  to  please  the  Phillips  family,  and 
conform  to  Phillips'  standards.  For  her,  there's  only  happi- 
ness in  conformity." 

"And  for  you?" 

"  Yes  —  and  for  me.  That's  partly  racial,  you  know.  The 
Jewish  girl  isn't  meant  to  be  a  pioneer  of  freedom." 

"Nell " 

"Nell,  I  honestly  do  believe  for  your  greater  rest  tonight, 
Gillian,  would  have  succumbed  anyhow.  She's  really  deep 
down  passionate  —  not  only  a  surface  affair.  ...  I  say,  isn't 
it  curious  how  we've  always  deplored  the  waste  of  Charlotte 
Verity's  fanatical  tolerance  on  Antonia  who  doesn't  need  it?  — 
It  fits  in  splendidly  now  for  Nell.  She'll  make  a  heroine  of 
Nell,  and  simply  love  having  her  there." 

"  The  pattern  preconceived  .  .  ."  Gillian  murmured. 
"  Then  was  it  also  decreed  since  the  first  evolution  from  chaos, 
0  Deborah,  that  you  should  fit  into  the  Phillips'  scheme  at 
last?  " 

"  It  seems  like  it,"  not  altogether  ruefully.  "  When  I  tried 
to  play  the  old  game,  just  once,  just  for  fun,  it  politely  in- 
ormed  me  that  it  had  no  further  use  for  my  services,"  and  on  an 
impulse  she  confided  in  Gillian  her  expedition  to  Jermyn  Street, 
three  months  ago. 

"  Blair  —  behaved  quite  well,"  was  Gillian's  sole  comment. 

"  Oh  yes.  Blair  is  a  man  of  experience.  There's  a  mellow- 
ness about  him  —  Had  it  been  a  chivalrous  hot-headed  young 
knight  to  whom  I  had  flown  in  distressed  rebellion,  he  would 
have  urged  me  to  abandon  my  home  and  husband,  and  trust 
my  future  to  him  —  and  we'd  have  been  unhappy  ever  after." 

"  Is  Samson  still  suspicious?  " 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  375 

"Yes  —  up  till  the  hour  of  going  to  press;  on  and  off.  But 
I  can  counter  it." 

"  With  what  do  you  counter  it?  " 

"  Fascination,"  admitted  Deb  simply. 

Gillian  laughed,  but  would  not  explain  her  laughter.  From 
the  tone  in  which  Deb  had  said,  "  I  can  counter  it,"  it  was 
delightfully  evident  that  Samson  was  providing  his  wife  with 
a  new  game,  the  game  of  re-conquest.  ..."  It  keeps  the  child 
occupied  and  amused,"  reflected  Gillian;  "  and  of  course  she'll 
coax  down  his  suspicions  in  the  end,  especially " 

"  It'll  be  all  right  in  December,"  she  prophesied  to  Deb,  who 
in  her  turn  gurgled  mirthfully  and  refused  to  say  why. 

" '  The  Colonel's  lady  and  Judy  O'Grady 
Are  sisters  under  their  skins.' 

—  you  representing  Judy  in  this  instance,  with  the  entire  bulk 
of  tlie  Phillips'  Illusion  in  the  role  of  the  Colonel's  lady." 

"  Define  the  Phillips'  Illusion.  It  crops  up  in  your  conver- 
sation like  King  Charles'  head." 

"The  Illusion  is  that  any  girl  would  love  Samson;  that  I 
love  Samson;  that  I  am  happy;  that  I  am  doing  my  best  to 
make  Samson  happy;  that  we  are  all  happy  together;  that  we 
are  a  united  family.  Amen.  In  the  end  the  Illusion  will  be- 
come fact.  It  will  overpower  me  .  .  .  it's  already  much 
stronger  than  I  am." 

"You're  by  nature  —  adaptable,  aren't  you.  Deb?  " 

"  Horribly  so  .  .  .  yes,  and  that  fits  in,  too,  Jill,  for  if  I'd 
been  very  emphatically  myself,  all  cornery  and  defiant,  I'd 
have  rebelled  and  gone  on  rebelling  and  urged  Naomi  to  rebel 
.  .  .  and  we'd  have  been  uncomfortable  for  the  rest  of  our 
lives.  But  for  me  as  I  am  —  the  most  pliable,  accommodat- 
ing, imitative  creature  on  earth  —  I  do  see,  oh,  .  .  .  tolerable 
comfort  and  resignation  ahead." 

"  Intolerable  discomfort  and  rebellion  are  better  things  for 
the  soul.  Deb.     They  stimulate  it." 

But  Deb  only  said :  "  The  Phillips'  Illusion  is  too  much  for 
me " 


CHAPTER   V 


ALL  this  year  of  hope  and  reprieve,  Richard  had  just 
dimly  realized  the  continuation  of  Mr.  Gryce's  attacks; 
but  they  had  slithered  more  or  less  harmlessly  off  the 
conviction  that  in  the  September  of  1917  would  come  his  own 
chance  to  prove  to  Englishmen  whether  or  no  he  be  an  English- 
man. Now  .  .  .  Mr.  Gryce  had  not  improved  with  keeping; 
and  Richard  was  again  exposed,  without  shield,  to  the  old  pes- 
tered agony  of  responsibility  .  .  .  Ae  had  committed  atrocities; 
he  did  not  fight  fairly;  he  was  a  German,  the  Germans.  .  .  . 
No  place  for  him  during  the  war  —  no  place  afterwards. 
Where  was  he  bom?  Where  reared?  where  legally  belonging? 
Where  his  sympathies?  .  .  .  All  over  the  place  —  nowhere  — 
anywhere.  What  country  wanted  him?  What  country 
claimed  him?  For  what  country  and  in  what  cause  had  he 
suffered  during  the  Great  War? — Jew,  then,  at  least?  Or 
Socialist  —  Conscientious  Objector? 

But  he  had  no  convictions  —  doubting  even  his  own  stubborn 
loyalty  of  schoolboyhood.  He  was  no  more  a  schoolboy.  He 
was  a  man  —  a  man  with  nerves.  His  nerves  gave  Richard  no 
rest. 

He  did  not  regret,  in  the  week  that  followed  Samson's  letter, 
his  refusal  to  serve  in  the  Labour  Battalion.  Morally,  he  con- 
sidered the  evasion  despicable  —  for  him;  though  a  good 
enough  solution  for  those  who  really  were  indifferent  for  the 
fight,  and  impartial  as  to  the  issues.  He  did  not  regret  it; 
nevertheless,  his  loathing  towards  internment  swelled  again 
to  a  morbid  obsession.  He  positively  could  not  bear  the  sound 
or  sight  of  the  word.  And  then  Mr.  Gryce  began  to  flaunt  a 
button  with  "  Intern  them  all  "  displayed  thereon  —  Richard 

376 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  377 

went  down  to  stay  with  the  Dunnes  for  his  last  week  of  liberty. 
He  remembered  affectionately  and  with  a  sense  of  far-off  cool- 
ness and  repose,  that  chintz  sitting-room  in  the  cottage;  its 
portrait  of  Commander  Antony  Dunne  over  the  mantelpiece; 
its  atmosphere  so  casually,  indubitably  English;  remembered 
too  how  naturally  in  those  Christmas  holidays  of  1914  he  had 
fitted  himself  into  this  room  and  what  it  stood  for.  Perhaps 
here  was  peace  from  the  demons  plaguing  him;  reassurance, 
also,  as  to  where  in  spirit  he  belonged.  If  he  were  "  all  right " 
among  the  Dunnes,  he  was  —  all  right. 

The  chintz  sitting-room,  speaking  for  the  Dunnes,  repudiated 
Richard  Marcus;  bluff  and  careless  Antony  Dunne  was  defi- 
nitely antagonistic  towards  him  —  and  Antony  Dunne  domi- 
nated his  family  still,  from  the  encircling  oak  frame.  Richard 
had  anticipated  gratefully  the  room,  the  pictures,  the  model 
of  a  man-of-war,  the  curios  from  the  Pacific  Islands  and  Japan 
and  the  Malay;  the  albums  with  Greville  and  Frank  in  their 
different  stages  of  allegiance  to  naval  tradition,  the  battered 
boys'  books  on  the  shelf,  all  yarning  about  the  sea  and  sea- 
fights  and  sea-heroes;  the  view  of  low-lying  fields  beyond  the 
windows;  he  had  anticipated  all  these  —  and  forgotten  he  was 
no  longer  careless  participant.  The  room  informed  him  now 
very  definitely  that  he  was  an  outsider;  guilty  in  his  birth- 
place; the  room  quietly  but  grimly  imposed  its  personality 
upon  Richard,  as  symbolizing  all  from  which  he  wa^  excluded. 
The  Dunnes  had  lived  in  Essex,  in  Market  Cottage,  for  five 
generations;  the  Dunnes  had  always  been  naval  stock  —  dedi- 
cated to  England's  sea-service  long  before  any  question  of 
war;  their  patriotic  allegiance  need  not  even  be  mentioned  — 
could  be  taken  absolutely  for  granted;  it  stood  —  as  this  room 
stood.  That  the  Dunnes  should  ever  go  messing  about  the 
Continent  and  having  their  sons  in  the  wrong  places  .  .  .  the 
room  was  lazily  scornful  at  the  mere  idea.  The  Dunnes  were 
quite,  quite  certain  beforehand  where  they  were  to  be  born  and 
where  buried.  One  of  them  had  settled  in  another  county,  and 
one  —  Molly's  father  —  had  married  a  London  girl ;  these  were 
their  utmost  excursions  abroad.     And  one  Dunne  had  learnt 


378  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

how  to  speak  a  foreign  language,  Spanish,  fluently  ...  it  was 
a  great  joke  among  the  other  Dunnes,  And  when  their  pro- 
fession took  them  across  wide  seas  and  into  strange  ports  and 
islands,  these  seas  and  ports  and  islands  became,  at  a  touch, 
English  ...  or  English  to  them,  which  was  the  same  thing. 
They  were  simply  uninfluenced  by  what  was  not  English;  just 
as  the  room  absorbed  no  outlandish  flavour  from  the  scattered 
lumps  of  stone  and  coral,  weapons  and  embroideries.  These 
were  vivid  and  interesting  enough  —  but  only  vivid  and  inter- 
esting on  suff^erance ;  the  real  thing  was  the  chintz,  the  view,  the 
album. 

Richard  grew  to  hate  that  room. 

Next,  he  grew  to  hate  Frank.  Frank  was  a  talkative  lad  of 
fourteen,  who  had  met  Richard  with  the  pony-trap  on  arrival 
at  the  station  of  the  nearest  town ;  it  was  necessary,  before  driv- 
ing out  to  Market  Cottage,  four  miles  away,  that  Richard  should 
call  at  the  police-station,  and  exhibit  his  papers  and  photograph 
and  so  forth;  and  answer  the  official's  searching  questions. 
Frank's  curiosity  had  insisted  on  accompanying  Richard  inside, 
even  to  the  lengths  of  bestowing  pennies  on  an  urchin  to  hold 
the  pony;  he  thought  the  whole  proceedings  "  rum";  no  previ- 
ous guest  of  the  Dunnes  had  ever  been  subjected  to  all  this 
Ifuss.  .  .  .  Frank  asked  the  object  of  the  fuss  a  great  many  ques- 
tions about  registration  —  recurred  to  it  all  through  supper,  in 
fact:  "Five-mile  limit  —  what  does  that  mean?  That  you 
can't  go  any  further  from  here  without  special  permit?  Good 
Lord!  Grev,  did  you  hear  that?  Then  you  can't  come  with 
us  to  the  meet  on  Thursday.  What  rot  for  you !  don't  you  hate 
it!  I  say,  show  the  Mater  your  photograph,  won't  you?  — 
the  one  you  showed  up  at  the  Station.  I  suppose  they  think 
you're  a  spy!  Do  you  have  to  exhibit  your  thumb-prints  too? 
Like  a  bally  old  convict,  isn't  it?  .  .  ." 

Richard  could  not  bring  himself  to  be  chatty  or  informative 
on  the  subject  of  registration;  and  Frank,  incensed  by  his 
surliness,  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Richard  was  a  spy,  and 
as  such  ought  to  be  tabooed  from  intimacy,  and  watched. 

The  situation  worried  Greville,  the  more  so  as  he  could  not 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  379 

quite  whole-heartedly  champion  Richard  — "  You  see,  Mater, 
he's  not  a  bit  like  he  used  to  be.  I  mean,  he  was  quite  a  jolly 
old  bean  last  time  he  was  here,  wasn't  he?  But  now  —  he  goes 
red  as  fire  when  Frank  rags  him  about  the  police  and  so 
on " 

"  We  must  just  tell  Frank  to  leave  off,  if  it  makes  Richard 
uncomfortable.     He's  our  guest,  after  all." 

"  Yes  —  but  Mater  —  if  —  if " 

"What,  dear?" 

"  If  Richard  felt  as  —  as  loyal  —  well,  as  other  chaps,  he'd 
laugh,  wouldn't  he,  when  Frank  .  .  ."  The  handsome  young 
naval  sub-lieutenant  was  no  psychologist.  "  You  don't  sup- 
pose there's  anything  in  it,  do  you,  Mater?  I'd  never  have 
dreamt  of  such  a  thing  if  Richard  hadn't  changed  so  from 
when  he  was  at  Winborough.  And  Frank  is  always  going  on 
at  this  child  for  chumming  up  with  a  German.  I  punch  his 
head,  of  course,  pretty  often;  but  why  does  he  shy  like  an  old 
cart-horse  when  we  talk  about  the  war?     Richard,  I  mean?  " 

Mrs.  Dunne  smiled :  "  I  don't  think  Richard  is  a  spy  in  the 
German  pay,  Grev,  if  that's  what  is  on  your  mind." 

"  Oh,  nor  do  I,"  very  quickly. 

His  mother  waited ;  there  were  obviously  more  skeins  of  per- 
plexity to  be  unwound. 

"  One  doesn't  have  anything  to  do  with  a  German,"  Greville 
blurted  out.  "  But  what's  one  to  do  if  he's  your  pal  before- 
hand? " 

"  I  wonder.  .  .  ."  Mrs.  Dunne  thought  it  out,  thou^ 
hardly  realizing  that  this  was  the  predicament  of  a  great  many 
of  her  fellow  English. 

Greville  was  not  the  type  of  boy  who  would  ever  of  his  own 
volition  commit  any  act  that  was  in  the  least  degree  complex 
or  eccentric.  Richard  had  been  as  normal  and  sturdy  a  dis- 
ciple of  take-it-for-granted  as  himself,  when  they  had  first 
paired  off  as  inseparables.  So  that  the  shatterment  of  Rich- 
ard's normal  world,  of  necessity  involved  a  twitch  where  it 
joined  Greville's. 

"  I  think  you  owe  something  to  old  friendship,  my  boy." 


380  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  Oh,  this  child  isn't  going  to  be  a  perishing  deserter,  betcher- 
life.  .  .  ."  In  proof  of  which,  Greville  summoned  Richard 
for  a  long  tramp  through  the  slowly  russeting  country.  They 
swung  along  for  the  most  part  in  silence,  as  they  had  always 
been  wont  to  do;  but  previously  it  was  the  silence  which  sig- 
nified "  all's  well,"  whereas  now  it  was  lumpish  —  a  case  of 
nothing  to  say.  For  Greville's  natural  disposition  was  for  anec- 
dotes of  the  gunroom  —  joyous  narrative  of  the  day  when  they 
"bagged  a  Fritz,"  or  technical  details  of  his  present  training 
for  the  R.N.A.S. —  his  companion's  set  face  and  monosyllabic 
appreciation  was  discouraging  on  such  themes.  Even  had 
Greville  realized  that  the  other  was  sick  with  envy,  and  not,  as 
he  thought,  bored,  it  would  hardly  have  rendered  matters  more 
comfortable.  Mutual  memories  of  Winborough  were  safe 
enough,  and  recurred  in  spasms,  but  Greville's  interest  had  been 
superseded  by  fresher,  more  vital  stuff;  and  Richard's  occa- 
sional starts  on  an  abstract  subject  were,  curiously,  addressed 
more  to  an  absent  Dgvid  than  to  Greville :  — "  Have  you  ever 
noticed  how  nearly  all  the  popular  songs  they  sing  have  some- 
thing in  'em  about  a  long  long  way  or  long  long  trails?  "  he  re- 
marked once,  as  a  chorus  from  a  khaki  group  in  the  distance 
floated  to  them  in  wind-borne  snatches.  "  A  long,  long  road 
in  Flanders  or  France,  straight  and  planted  with  poplars  .  .  . 
tired  men  dragging  on  and  on  with  a  sense  of  endlessness  like 
in  a  Nevinson  picture  —  but  it's  queer  that  it  should  have 
worked  its  way  into  the  very  songs." 

Greville  knew  little  of  roads  and  cared  less. 

They  were  at  the  moment  on  the  outskirts  of  a  neighbouring 
town;  a  road  of  detached  houses,  picturesque  and  gabled: 
each  so  fretfully  and  laboriously  different,  and  all  so  drearily 
alike.  All  of  these  bore  their  names  painted  on  the  gates; 
and  one  was  "  Heimat."  Richard's  lower  lip  twisted  sardon- 
ically. ..."  Heimat  " —  home  — after  three  years  of  war 
with  Germany!  Who  in  their  simplicity  had  dared  leave  such 
a  name  displayed?  A  wistful  group  of  exiles  from  the 
Vaterland,  who  still  clung  to  their  own  tongue,  wore  plaid,  and 
basket  plaits,  and  striped  socks,  drank  coffee  for  breakfast,  and 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  381 

sang  in  chorus  round  the  piano  after  dinner? — No  —  they 
would  have  called  their  house  Omdurman  or  the  Cedars  or  Ken- 
ilworth;  was  it  likely  that  a  second  Otto  Redbury  would  have 
the  temerity  to  dwell  behind  a  gate  with  "  Heimat "  painted 
boldly  upon  it — "In  our  position — "?  Heimat  probably 
sheltered  a  serenely  unconscious  English  family,  who  accepted 
the  rum  name  they  found  when  they  moved  in,  and  pronounced 
it  wrong  —  and  who  could  with  safety  have  dwelt  in  a  house 
called  "  Kaiser  Wilhelm  "  and  still  not  meet  with  suspicion. 
Perhaps  they  had  an  ancient  German  governess  whom  they 
tolerated  and  sheltered  for  pre-war  sake,  and  she  guarded  in 
her  sentimental  old  rag-bag  of  a  heart  the  secret  understanding 
of  "  Heimat,"  and  found  comfort  in  it.  .  .  . 

Greville,  who  had  not  noticed  the  house  called  Heimat, 
interrupted  his  companion's  musings:  "  I  say,  did  you  hear 
old  Rogers  has  had  both  his  legs  shot  away?  " 

"  Bad  luck !  We  beat  Dumfield  by  an  innings  when  he  was 
captain." 

"  Yes ;  he  wasn't  a  patch  on  Rothenburg,  though.  D'you 
remember  Rothenburg?  " 

Yes  —  Richard   remembered   Con. 

"  German  name,  wasn't  it?     What  happened  to  him?  '* 

"  D.S.O.  and  killed  at  Vimy,"  briefly.  He  wondered  if  Gre- 
ville, like  Mr.  Gryce,  was  going  to  say  "ought  to  have  been 
interned  "?  Even  the  subject  of  Winborough  was  perilous, 
might  lead  to  .  .  .  the  admission  they  all  sought  to  drag 
from  his  sensitive  reluctance. 

For  this  was  the  latest  result  of  Richard's  nerves,  that  he 
imagined  a  conspiracy  on  the  part  of  the  Dunne  household 
to  make  him  utter  aloud  —  scream  aloud  —  the  fact  that  he  was 
a  German.  Therefore  he  set  stern  watch  upon  his  speech, 
though  never  doubting  they  would  win  their  point  in  the  end. 
.  .  .  "Morose  beggar!  "  commented  young  Frank.  "Molly's 
coming  tomorrow  —  we'll  see  if  she  wakes  him  up  a  bit!  " 

"  Frank,  I  don't  want  you  to  tell  Molly  about  Richard." 

"What  — not  that  he's  a  blooming " 

"No,  dear." 


382  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

"  Why,  Mater?  Strikes  me  Molly  ought  to  be  put  on  guard. 
She  might  want  to  marry  him.     Nice  old  fizzle  that  'ud  be." 

Mrs.  Dunne  seriously  replied  that  he  might  trust  her  to  be 
responsible  for  the  safeguarding  of  Molly  (aged  fifteen)  from 
contraction  of  an  alliance  with  the  enemy. 

"Are  you  going  in  the  R.F.C.,  Richard?  "  asked  Molly,  on 
her  first  morning. 

They  were  in  the  orchard,  and  her  mouth  was  stained  a  deep 
plum-purple. 

"  No" 

"  You  said  last  year  —  no,  the  year  before  that,  wasn't  it?  — 
that  you  weren't  keen  on  anything  except  a  commission  in  the 
Flying  Corps.  And  I  was  going  to  work  the  wings  and  '  per 
ardua  ad  astra '  on  a  silk  handkerchief  for  you.  Lucky  I 
didn't." 

"  Plenty  of  chaps  you  could  have  given  it  to." 

Molly  fastened  strong  pointed  teeth  into  the  downy  blue 
of  yet  another  plum;  and  then  asked:  "Are  you  going  into 
theR.E.?" 

"No." 

"Gunner,  then?" 

"  No." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  be  when  you  join  up?  " 

"  I'm  not  joining  up." 

"White  feather!  "  she  flashed  at  him.  She  had  been  in- 
clined to  regard  Richard  as  her  especial  property,  whenever 
they  had  met  at  Market  Cottage.  Though  he  had  teased  her 
a  lot,  he  was  always  rather  more  gentle  in  action  where  she 
w!as  concerned,  than  Greville  and  Frank.  So  that  she  was  not 
prepared  now,  when  in  a  fit  of  passion  he  seized  her  by  the 
shoulders  and  shook  her  —  shook  her  — "  You  little  beast " 

His  fingers  dug  deep  into  her  shoulders;  she  tried  with  a 
sudden  jerk  to  twist  out  of  his  grasp  .  .  .  could  not.  .  .  . 
Then  with  quite  a  good  exhibition  of  resource,  tore  an  over- 
ripe plum  from  a  bough  near  at  hand  and  flung  it  in  Richard's 
face— "Hun!" 

"  That's  right,"  he  said  coolly,  releasing  her.     "  Traitor  if 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  383 

you  like  —  spy  and  coward,"  and  he  grinned  at  her  mute 
amazement.  Suddenly,  in  a  queer,  vicious  sort  of  way  he  was 
enjoying  the  scene.  "You've  guessed  it,  Molly.  Only  a  Hun 
would  grab  a  girl  and  shake  her.  I'd  be  happy  dropping 
bombs  on  babies,  too;  and  shooting  a  half -drowned  non- 
combatant  in  the  water.     We're  all   like  that.     And   I'd  be 

happy "  he  stopped,  and  looked  at  the  girl;   a  shifting 

ray  of  sun  through  the  leaves  struck  her  across  the  face;  across 
the  half-parted  plum-stained  lips;  showed  him  the  angry  gold 
freckling  her  big  brown  eyes.  A  tomboy  in  blue  serge  with 
rough  chestnut  hair  .  .  .  yes,  but  a  promise  of  more  than  that 
.  .  .  for  him. 

He  moved  towards  her  —  and  quickly  she  plucked  another 
dark  mauve  globule. 

"  Drop  that." 

"  Hun !  Hun !  Hun !  "  she  taunted  him. 

"  There  are  things  one  can't  help,  Molly  —  and  there  are  also 
too  many  things  you  don't  even  begin  to  understand,  Molly  — 
That's  why  you're  no  good  to  me,  just  as  present.  One  day, 
when  I've  time,  I  may  bother  to  make  you  understand.     Or 

I  may  not.     Meanwhile "     His  arm  sprang  up  against  the 

whizzing  plum,  averted  it,  dragged  her  into  his  arms  and  kissed 
her  roughly  .  .  .  then  more  tenderly.  .  .  .  She  was  passive, 
recognizing  with  wonder  that  this  was  suddenly  not  an  uncouth 
bullying  schoolboy,  but  a  man  dogged  and  fierce  and  rather 
unwilling,  who  had  captured  her  defiance  and  stilled  it. 

But  what  rubbish!  Richard!  Why,  he  was  only  eighteen; 
younger  than  Grev  —  and  Grev  was  certainly  not  yet  a  man, 
though  he  had  fought.  .  .  .  Richard  had  not  even  fought  — 
the  colour  stung  her  brown  skin  into  red,  as  she  recalled  his 
contempt :  "  There  are  too  many  things  you  don't  even  begin 
to  understand,  Molly " 

"  I  don't  care!     I  don't  care!  "  she  raged  in  a  whisper. 

"  I  don't  care  either,"  came  the  answer  in  that  cool  man- 
voice,  which  reason  could  hardly  yet  accept  as  belonging  to 
Richard;  "but  if  I  ever  do  care,  Molly,  then  I'll  damned  well 
marry  you,  and  you'll  have  a  Hun  for  a  husband  whether 


384  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

you  want  it  or  not  —  so  you'd  better  be  more  polite 
now.  .  .  ." 

"  I  won't  —  you  sha'n't  —  never  —  let  me  go,  Richard !  " 

"  Kiss  me  first,  then.  I  like  your  kisses  though  I  don't  like 
you." 

In  a  final  twist  for  liberty,  she  slewed  her  head  backwards 
.  .  .  and  saw  his  eyes,  sad  light  eyes  narrowed  under  their 
bending  ridges  —  something  like  a  tumbler  pigeon  turned 
wildly  over  and  over  in  her  breast.  .  .  .  With  a  gasp,  she  of- 
fered him  her  childish  fruit-stained  lips  .  .  .  and  darted  away 
between  the  orchard  trees. 

Richard  pressed  his  two  clenched  fists  against  his  fore- 
head. .  .  . 

"What  did  I  say  to  her? — looks  as  though  I  were  going 
mad.  ..."  A  portion  of  himself  seemed  to  slide  coldly  away 
from  the  rest  —  and  then  be  jerked  again  into  its  place  .  .  . 
it  was  a  nasty  sensation;  and  so  was  the  shame  with  which 
he  submitted  to  the  fact  that  he  had  no  control  whatever 
over  any  juggling  tricks  his  brain  and  body  in  goblin  collabo- 
ration might  choose  to  play  him. 

A  conviction,  for  instance,  that  a  number  of  people  in 
assembly  held  a  threat  and  a  menace  for  him  .  .  .  slow  horror 
which  the  mind  communicated  to  the  flesh  —  he  could  not  keep 
still  between  walls  and  floor  and  ceiling,  with  people  crushing 
him  round  and  stifling  him,  blocking  his  exit  —  with  people's 
voices  droning  like  wasps  .  .  .  the  heavy  persistent  circling 
motion  of  wasps  over  food  .  .  .  yes,  he  had  to  get  away,  if 
he  was  to  breathe,  if  he  was  to  live  .  .  .  his  head,  his  eyes, 
his  ears  and  neck,  his  wrists  and  finger-tips  and  knees,  each 
held  their  separate  hammering  pulse  —  how  could  he  sit  quietly 
in  a  chair,  at  a  table,  with  all  these  fever-pulses  dinning  and 
throbbing  in  unequal  measure,  and  that  one  great  pulse  in  his 
left  side  swinging  dominion  over  the  others  —  he  must  get  into 
the  open,  or  die,  there,  before  them  all,  before  Greville's  be- 
wilderment, and  Frank's  loud  disdain,  and  Molly  crying, 
**  Hun !  Hun !  Hun !  "...  he  preferred  to  die  alone. 

"  I  ought  to  go  home "  but  home  was  more  meals  in 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  385 

public,  and  Mr.  Gryce,  and  trafl5c,  and  pavements  a-swirl  with 
people.  Only  a  few  days  more  now  —  only  tomorrow  and  the 
day  after  —  only  tomorrow  —  and  horror  itself  would  be  there, 
in  place  of  horror  anticipated.  How  would  it  be  when  he 
needed  to  run  —  and  ran  up  against  barbed  wire  —  and  was 
turned  back  .  .  .  enclosed  and  ringed  by  barbed  wire?  Sense- 
less barbed  wire  —  had  it  been  enemy  fencing,  you  might  cut  it, 
break  through  and  into  enemy  trench,  bring  a  rifle  smash- 
ing down  on  a  fat  pink  head  .  .  .  Prussian  head  .  .  . 
pink  head  .  .  .  mud  and  filth  and  the  swarm  of  lice,  and  oozy, 
sticky  blood,  and  cold,  wet  cold.  .  .  .  This  was  France  —  war 

—  his  birthright  —  birthright  of  everybody  growing  from  1914 
into  manhood.  Oh,  damn  .  .  .  that  hot  swollen  feeling  round 
his  temples  again  —  no,  not  inside  —  round  the  outside  .  .  . 
and  why  did  they  try  so  hard  to  hypnotize  him  into  declaring 
aloud  that  he  was  a  German?  even  Mrs.  Dunne,  even  Greville 
.  .  .  and  Frank  of  course,  with  Molly  now  his  partner  and 
confederate.     They  were  all  jolly  and  serene  and  happy  enough 

—  couldn't  they  leave  him  alone?  They  and  the  chintz  sit- 
ting-room and  that  —  that  stranger  dining  with  them  this  Sun- 
day after  church.  Who  was  it?  The  local  doctor?  Dr.  Grey- 
son?  He  had  not  brought  his  wife  .  .  .  apologized,  said  she 
had  a  cold ;  Richard  knew  —  he  did  not  care  to  bring  her  into 
a  house  where  a  German  was  staying;  she  might  have  to  shake 
hands  with  him,  and  she  had  vowed  not  to  shake  hands  with  a 
German  again  —  so  she  had  preferred  to  stay  at  home.  The 
Dunnes  had  talked  of  asking  a  Mr.  Rhodes  and  his  son  and 
daughter  —  very  decent  people,  Richard  remembered  them 
from  last  time  .  .  .  and  then  the  question  of  inviting  them  had 
suddenly  been  abandoned,  with  a  great  show  of  tact  on  Mrs. 
Dunne's  part  — "  perhaps  they  would  not  care  to  come  out  so 
soon  after  poor  Hal's  death  " —  but  again  Richard  suspected 
the  confidential  after-discussion  between  Greville  and  his 
mother.  "  Better  not,  Mater,  while  Richard's  here;  he's  going 
tomorrow.     But  they're  the  sort  who'd  mind.  .  .  ." 

.  .  .  Would  Frank  never  stop  eating  pudding?  apple  suet 
pudding  —  two  helpings  already,  and  now  a  third.     Frank  did 


386  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

it  on  purpose  —  fiendishly  —  he  knew  Richard  was  mad  to  get 
up  and  out  of  the  cramped  cramping  space.  ... 

"  Coffee  in  the  sitting-room,  I  think,"  Mrs.  Dunne  proposed 
at  last;  "such  a  pity  it's  raining,  or  we  might  have  sat  out- 
side." 

They  all  moved  together,  glucose  in  conviviality,  towards 
the  room  which  held  the  portrait  of  Commander  Dunne.  Gre- 
ville,  in  his  simple,  eager  way  was  explaining  some  aviation 
technicality  to  Doctor  Greyson,  who  listened  respectfully. 

"These  youngsters  —  they're  showing  us  all  the  way!  "  he 
smiled  at  Frank  in  his  blue  and  gold,  at  Molly  wearing  her  Girl 
Guide  uniform  —  his  eye  swept  over  Richard  blankly  —  he 
knew  then?  They  had  told  him,  or  he  must  have  remarked  on 
all  that  square  muscularity  clothed  in  mufti.  .  .  .  Voices  like 
persistent  wasps  .  .  .  the  pursuing  threat  was  in  the  room  with 
him  now  ...  it  was  always  worst  in  here  .  .  .  with  the  pic- 
ture of  Commander  Antony  Dunne.  What  was  the  Doctor  say- 
ing? something  about  the  German  prisoners  employed  to  work 
on  a  farm  in  the  neighbourhood  .  .  .  but  that  was  part  of  the 
plot,  to  goad  him  into  his  declaration  —  to  lead  the  talk  that 
way  ,  .  .  part  of  the  plot.  .  .  . 

"  They're  lazy  swine,  you  know !  won't  do  a  stroke  of  work 
when  the  overseer's  back  is  turned " 

"Why  should  they?  "  demanded  Richard. 

The  wasp-drone  hushed  now;  faces  all  turned  towards  him, 
curious  to  hear  —  the  plot  was  working  as  anticipated. 

Fool!  why  had  he  spoken?  .  .  .  that  cursed  new  trick  of 
seeing  things  all  round  and  from  the  other  side.  But  he  went 
on,  doggedly:  "Do  you  suppose  that  if  I  were  an  English 
prisoner  in  Germany  that  Fd  do  one  more  stroke  of  work  on 
their  damned  alien  soil  than  would  be  forced  out  of  me?  " 

Molly  and  Frank  exchanged  a  quick  look.  And  Greville 
frowned  uneasily.  Then  Dr.  Greyson  said,  with  perfect  cour- 
tesy: "  It  's  rather  difficult,  I  imagine,  for  any  one  who  is  not 
entirely  one  of  us  to  appreciate  our  point  of  view.  For  you're 
not  quite  English,  are  you,  Mr.  Marcus?  " 

He  knew!  ...  he  knew  well   enough  —  he   only   put  the 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  387 

question  to  drag  out  his  answer  —  he  should  have  it  then !  .  .  . 
Frank  smiled  meaningly  at  Molly.  .  .  .  Richard  saw  him  — 
and  the  room,  the  little  chintz  sitting-room  which  was  all  Eng- 
land, was  glad,  glad,  glad  at  his  impending  humiliation.  .  .  . 
Nerves  drawn  tighter  and  tighter  —  then  they  twanged  apart, 
burst  strings  — "  You're  not  quite  English,  are  you,  Mr.  Mar- 
cus? " 

"  No,"  Richard  screamed  suddenly,  "  I'm  a  German.  And 
I  hate  the  English  —  I  hate  them " 

It  was  not  true.  As  he  rushed  for  the  door,  and  down  the 
passage  and  out  into  the  garden,  all  that  was  left  sane  in  him 
denied  the  cry ;  he  did  not  hate  the  English  —  loved  them  — 
wanted  to  be  like  them  —  wanted  to  belong  to  them  —  fight  for 
them.  But  they  had  pushed  him  into  the  lie.  And  now  he 
could  not  live,  having  said  it  .  .  .  the  sea  was  somewhere  .  .  . 
he  would  run  till  he  got  to  the  sea.  ... 

The  pad  of  footsteps  in  his  rear  ...  he  plunged  forward, 
slipping  on  the  soaked  ground,  .  .  .  More  footsteps,  louder  — 
only  let  him  get  away  —  if  there  were  no  shock  of  barbed  wire 
ahead  to  stay  him  ...  he  would  escape  the  barbed  wire,  es- 
cape the  mob  that  for  two  and  a  half  years  had  been  hound- 
ing behind  him  .  .  .  never  so  close  as  now.  ..."  Schnabel ! 
Schnabel!  "  soft  rain  blowing  across  his  face  .  .  .  head  down, 
arms  pressed  against  his  sides,  breath  sobbing  fiercely,  he  ran 
on  in  a  blind  panic.  .  .  . 

"  I  can't  catch  up  with  the  beggar,"  said  Greville,  returning 
to  the  sitting-room.  "  I  called  him,  too.  ...  I  s'pose  he'U 
come  back  all  right?  " 


CHAPTER   VI 


WHY  had  he  not  thought  of  suicide  before  this? 
Looked  upon  calmly  and  dispassionately,  from  a 
merely  business  aspect,  it  was  the  only  course  for 
him  —  lacking  the  vital  sustenance  which  men  drew  nowadays 
from  love  of  their  own  land.  It  annoyed  Richard  that  even 
though  he  had  reached  the  sea,  the  sea  was  nowhere  in  sight  — 
lost  behind  wide  flats  of  mud.  He  leant  against  the  rail  which 
divided  the  path  beside  the  railway  from  a  strip  of  coarse  sand, 
sullenly  determined  not  to  plunge  across  all  that  marsh  till  he 
found  deep  enough  water  to  drown  him;  even  suicide,  it  seemed, 
was  to  be  a  diflSculty  and  a  favour;  —  well,  the  sea  could  come 
to  him  —  he  would  wait  for  the  returning  tide. 

He  must  have  run  more  than  five  miles;  that  was  all  he  knew 
of  his  whereabouts.  For  when  he  registered,  it  was  made  clear 
that  for  him  the  Essex  coast  was  prohibited  area.  Leigh  was 
evidently  the  name  of  this  little  estuary  town  he  had  struck 
haphazard.  There  would  be  half  a  column  in  the  local  paper: 
"  Enemy  alien  drowns  himself."  .  .  .  Perhaps  two  lines  in  the 
London  Press,  amongst  other  minor  items  of  news. 

Richard  stared  horizon-wards  where  might  be  the  dilatory 
tide  of  his  desire.  He  was  now  peaceful,  almost  numb  in 
mind  and  body,  caring  little  for  recent  turmoil,  where  so  soon 
blankness  was  to  be.  He  wondered  dispassionately  as  to  the 
time?  About  six  o'clock,  to  judge  by  the  western  pyramid  of 
opaque  storm-grey  cloud,  a  pale  yellow  sun  breaking  its  peak 
into  fragments  and  spilling  itself  in  shaft  after  shaft  of  dim 
light  down  the  triangle  and  on  to  the  illimitable  green  and 
brown  and  fawn,  burnishing  it  to  a  glimmering  fantasy  like  the 
hues  of  a  mackerel.     Patches  of  blue  sky  were  reflected  in 

388 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  389 

purple  pools.  And  areas  of  mud  were  almost  invisible  for 
ships,  their  keels  deeply  embedded,  as  though  a  whole  lurching 
fleet  had  suddenly  flung  themselves  on  their  sides  and  were  im- 
potent .  .  .  ropes  and  nets  and  sails  and  tackle,  old  tubs  and 
steamers  and  hulks.  The  scene  was  packed  and  spiked  with 
masts.  Behind  the  station,  and  its  creak  and  flap  of  signals 
and  gates  and  coal-trucks,  a  purple  gasometer  seemed  to  have 
entangled  itself  beyond  redemption  into  the  mournful  land- 
scape; and  from  an  out  jutting  breakwater,  the  black  finger  of 
a  donkey-engine  pointed  darkly,  accusingly  against  the  sky. 
The  tide  had  turned,  somewhere  far  out  there;  and  in  monot- 
onous procession  up  a  narrow  flowing  squiggle  of  silvery  grey, 
the  fishing-boats  came  in;  their  unclothed  masts  still  gauntly 
upright;  small  dark  figures  of  men  hauling  with  ropes  on 
either  side,  or  gently  paddling  from  the  stem;  small,  dark  fig- 
ures, penguin-height,  standing  patiently  in  rows  on  the  mud, 
to  receive  the  loads  of  fish.  Round  each  dwindling  bend  an- 
other boat  could  be  sighted;  they  might  come  in  thus  for  ever, 
with  nothing  to  break  their  soundless  even  progress.  The  sky 
was  all  grey  now,  and  the  grey  and  brown  of  the  marshes 
hardly  touched  to  pearliness.  A  throb  in  the  air  loudened,  as 
a  grey  steel  airship  came  pounding,  slow  and  enormous,  across 
the  foreground.  Dagon,  god  of  fish  .  .  .  god  significant  of 
grey  steel  wars.  .  .  . 

From  lethargic  contemplation,  Richard  was  being  imper- 
ceptibly hypnotized  by  the  subtle  rhythmic  excitement  that  per- 
vades and  hangs  about  an  estuary;  estuary  which  is  not  quite 
the  sea;  which  leads  to  the  sea;  which  opens  out  so  wildly  and 
generously  from  the  mere  width  of  a  river.  The  fishing-hauls 
were  in,  and  the  men  had  vanished  from  the  marsh ;  but  to  him 
it  was  still  as  though  boat  after  boat  were  following  the  curve 
of  the  inflowing  stream  .  .  .  but  dimly  visible  now  .  .  .  the 
air  was  full  of  windless  dusk,  and  a  quiver  shook  the  keels  of 
the  mud-locked  fleet;  soon  they  would  begin  to  stir  and  lift.  .  .  . 


390  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

u 

The  scream  of  a  siren  punctured  the  calm.  Another  one, 
from  much  nearer  at  hand,  pressed  down  and  swallowed  the 
first  long  raucous  shock  of  sound. 

Richard  knew  the  two  blasts  were  signals  of  an  air-raid 
impending.  He  had  heard  the  Dunnes  discussing  the  possi- 
bility of  several  during  this  week  of  harvest  moon.  A  few 
lingering  footsteps  pattered  to  sudden  quickness  and  silence. 
In  the  little  town  at  his  back,  and  all  along  the  coast,  he  was 
aware  of  no  panic,  but  of  every  person  on  the  defensive; 
sucked  back  behind  walls  and  shutters  and  curtains;  braced 
to  sturdy  sensible  resistance  of  the  chance-monster  and  its 
grim  selection.  In  the  morning  the  population  would  emerge 
and  stand  about  and  gossip  clamorously,  with  frequent  repe- 
tition of  the  phrase:     "Well,  I  was  just "     "Yes,  and  I 

was  just "  But  now,  all  activity  withdrawn  and  wait- 
ing. .  .  . 

Richard  waited  too,  a  few  moments.  Then,  impatient  of  im- 
mobility, strolled  along  the  path  on  his  right.  He  was  im- 
pressed by  the  absence  of  fuss  on  the  part  of  the  civil  popula- 
tion. All  very  well  for  him  who  had  no  more  fastenings  on 
life;  but  these  ordinary  people  appeared  to  take  it  so  for 
granted  that  they  should  be  disturbed  in  the  midst  of  their  daily 
business,  to  an  encounter  with  such  grotesque  apparition  as 
bombs  and  shrapnel  and  aerial  torpedoes.  .  .  .  Their  be- 
haviour roused  him  to  the  same  queer  beating  tenderness  as 
when  the  blind  discharged  soldiers  at  the  music-hall  had  been 
"  still  keen  on  things."  Some  people  were  rather  fine.  .  .  . 
English  people  .  .  .  but  he  had  declared  out  loud  that  he  hated 
the  English  .  .  .  and  so  he  had  to  die. 

He  went  past  the  gas-works,  and  along  the  sea-wall  which 
meandered  through  the  marshes.  Open  country  all  around 
him  now,  and  no  noise  but  the  swish  of  rushes,  far-off  gurgle 
and  squirt  of  water,  occasional  plop  of  some  small  animal  into 
the  spreading  pools.  Was  there  always  this  black  gaping  rent 
of  silence  between  the  signal  and  the  first  gun-mutterings?     It 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  391 

was  Richard's  unique  experience  of  an  air-raid  outside  London ; 
and  an  air-raid  in  London  he  had  considered  was  altogether 
a  second-rate  affair. 

"  First  line  of  defence,"  he  remembered  Greville  had  called 
the  belt  of  fortresses  —  Sheerness,  Shoeburyness,  Canvey  Is- 
land, Tilbury  and  Gravesend.  He  strained  his  eyes  towards 
the  angles  of  crouching  coast-line  opposite  him,  in  vain  effort 
to  distinguish  them.  First  line  of  defence,  he  repeated  once 
or  twice  exultantly  —  before  he  pulled  himself  up  as  a  fool. 
What  did  such  trivialities  concern  him  now? 

Hallo  —  was  that  firing  out  there?     No. 

Yes. 

Or  a  dog  barking? 

Richard  told  himself  persistently  it  was  only  a  dog  barking, 
to  smother  the  quality  of  vital  contentment  newborn  in  him 
and  uprising  with  the  nearer  and  yet  nearer  sound  of  the  guns. 

The  darkness  was  lit  with  sinking  star-shells ;  and  through  the 
thin  white  light  which  the  rising  half-moon  spread  over  the 
estuary,  the  inland  Hight  of  little  winged  machines  was  clearly 
and  delicately  visible. 

Richard  stood  stock-still,  staring  at  these,  till,  in  a  surge  of 
wild  indignation,  he  found  himself  starkly  confronted  with  the 
fact  that  they  were  the  Gothas,  and  that  they  were  over  an 
English  river,  carrying  death  to  an  English  city. 

"  Damn  their  insolence !  "  he  shouted  into  the  sky.  "  It's  our 
land " 

Our  land,  fizzing  in  a  nightmare  of  flame;  drowned  in  great 
gun-thunders.  And  these  small  black  figures  busy  with  their 
evening's  haul  of  fish  not  an  hour  ago,  our  fisherfolk  —  could 
we  prevent  them  from  being  torn  and  hurt? 

"  Oh,  Christ  —  that's  good !  "  as  the  barrage  crashed  from 
every  side  at  once;  and  the  giant  gun  on  Canvey  Island  mouthed 
and  reverberated  above  all  the  rest.  Our  barrage!  ...  To 
Hell  with  these  invaders.  .  .  . 

Richard  was  all  right.  His  at  last,  that  blessed  bias  on  the 
vision  which  he  had  forfeited,  and  so  desperately  sought.  He 
was,  thank  God,  incapable  now  of  reason  or  justice  or  sanity  — 


392  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

unconscious  of  himself  and  his  position,  oblivious  of  an  enemy 
point  of  view.  Just  English  for  all  he  was  worth.  One  man 
for  one  land.  A  patriot  .  .  .  and  —  in  it!  ...  He  forgot 
that  he  was  alone;  the  rending  chaos  all  about  him  gave  him 
the  illusion  of  being  a  central  participant;  so  his  solitary 
figure  jigged  and  capered  on  the  flat  sea-wall  with  incoherent 
vocal  splutter  of  encouragement  and  fury  and  a  very  delirium . 
of  pleasure. 

A  shape  of  yellowish  drab  came  scuttling  along  the  wall, 
arms  thrown  up  to  shield  the  face.  ..."  Hallo  —  look 
ahead!  "  Richard  called  warningly  —  then  threw  out  his  hand 
and  clutched  at  the  slipping  figure.  "  You  were  nearly  down 
then  —  I  say,  what's  the  matter  with  you?  "  for  the  little  sol- 
dier was  clinging  to  him  in  a  very  frenzy  of  terror,  with  prayer 
and  sob  and  blasphemy  mingled.  .  .  . 

"  Oo  —  er  —  0  Jesus,  the  blarsted  noise  again  .  .  .  don't  let 
'em  —  don't  lemme  go  —  I  ain't  a  coward,  sir,  'streuth  I'm  not 
—  bin  two  years  in  the  trenches  —  but  them  guns  fair  do  some- 
fink  to  the  inside  of  me  'ead.  .  .  .  Ow  —  er "  he  fell 

writhing  and  vomiting  to  the  ground  beside  Richard,  as  the 
barrage  appeared  to  have  enclosed  a  stray  Gotha,  and  shook 
the  four  sides  of  the  world  with  triumphant  yelps  and  rum- 
blings. 

"  Shell-shock,"  muttered  Richard.  "  Corporal  by  his  stripes 
and  —  by  Jove!  Military  Medal  " —  as  a  twist  of  khaki  tunic 
into  the  moonlight  revealed  a  strip  of  ribbon  sewn  on  to  the 
man's  meagre  chest. 

He  was  suddenly  guilty  and  ashamed  of  his  own  arrogance 
of  calm.  This  sort  of  wreck  was  what  the  war  made  of  some 
of  its  heroes;  "this  is  what  the  war  ought  to  have  made  of 
me  "...  he  should  have  been  blind  with  the  St.  Dunstan's 
men :  broken  like  the  little  cockney  soldier  from  France,  cower- 
ing here  beside  him.  His  mind  and  body  and  five  senses  whole 
and  immune,  were  dishonour. 

Richard  knelt  and  took  firm  grip  of  the  twitching  wrists. 
"  It's  all  right,"  gruffly.  "  Listen  —  they're  getting  away  to- 
wards London;  we  shall  have  quiet  for  a  bit." 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  393 

"Till  they  come  back,"  sobbed  the  man,  but  he  trembled 
less  violently,  and  presently  drew  himself  up  to  a  sitting  pos- 
ture. 

"  Discharged  '  fit '  from  'orspital  larst  week,"  he  whispered, 
lips  trembling  to  a  rueful  smile.  His  peaked,  freckled  face  was 
glistening  with  sweat,  and  his  fingers  still  tore  at  the  grass; 
but  he  was  making  an  effort  at  control.  "  Doc  told  me  I 
shouldn't  get  another  o'  these  'ere  attacks,  but  —  I  dunno  —  it's 
the  s'noise  wot  did  it.  I  was  walkin'  over  quiet-like  from  Ben- 
fleet  —  luvly  evenin'  an'  all  —  when  that  bloomin'  siren  went 
and  gave  me  fits  an'  I  begun  to  run."  His  voice  conveyed 
apology,  and  Richard  flushed  crimson. 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  repeated  awkwardly ;  "  where  do  you 
want  to  get?  " 

"  H'under  cover,"  said  the  Corporal  with  distinct  emphasis. 
"We're  nearer  Leigh,  I  b'lieve,  dian  Benfleet;  might  make  a 
dash  for  'ome  sweet  'ome  before.  .  .  .  Oh,  Gawd!  don't,  don't," 
as  a  fresh  growling  outbreak  from  the  Sheerness  guns  signified 
the  approach  up  the  Thames  of  a  second  batch  of  raiders. 

Cover?  Richard  looked  round  the  landscape;  it  was  en- 
tirely exposed;  not  even  a  tree;  nothing  humped  from  the  flat 
marshes  except  a  few  old  derelict  boats  reversed  in  the  mud; 
one  of  them  at  the  foot  of  the  slope  where  now  they  lay. 

"  Better  than  nothing !  "  It  might  at  least  be  suggestive 
of  shelter  to  his  companion,  even  if  of  no  actual  protection  from 
shapnel.  Richard  leapt  down  from  the  wall,  and  plunged 
up  to  his  knees  in  mud,  tugged  at  the  boat  with  all  his  welded 
strength  of  shoulder  and  muscle. 

"'Ere  —  you're  not  gawn?  "  he  heard  whimpered  during  a 
lull  in  the  barrage.  And  "  Rather  not !  "  he  shouted  back,  re- 
assuringly; and  succeeded  in  tilting  the  half -rotten  boards  so 
that  the  bows  rested  against  the  slope  while  the  stern  remained 
still  embedded;  thus  the  concave  bottom  of  the  boat  roofed  a 
small  dark  space  —  an  amateur  dug-out. 

Meanwhile,  the  second  raiders  were  not  suffered  to  pursue 
their  leaders  to  London;  the  barrage  waxed  fiercer,  shutting 
them  in,  driving  them  from  point  to  point;  a  few  bombs  were 


394  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

dropped,  and  exploded  with  a  dull  concussion  of  sound  quite 
distinct  from  gun-fire;  and  all  along  the  Kent  and  Essex  coast 
the  shrapnel  flew  screaming. 

"  Hot  stuff !  "  laughed  Richard,  as  a  moaning  hoot  snicked 
past  his  ears;  he  sprang  up  the  bank  again,  and  found  the  Cor- 
poral crying  in  a  quiet  agony,  too  exhausted  to  budge.  With- 
out explanation  he  lifted  him  gently;  placed  him  "under 
cover  "  as  he  had  desired.  Then  he  blocked  the  aperture  at 
the  tilt  of  the  boat  with  his  own  square  stocky  build.  "  Shut 
your  ears  with  your  arms,  you  won't  know  anything  more  about 
it  till  the  morning,"  he  shouted  through  the  din. 

Presently  his  companion  said:  "I've  just  remembered  me 
name  —  it's  Plunkett  —  Ted  Plunkett." 

"  Oh  —  yes?  "  Richard  was  rather  surprised  at  the  formal- 
ity in  the  midst  of  shell-shock  during  air-raid. 

A  pause.  Then :  "  Well  —  ain't  you  goin'  to  tell  me  your 
name  now  I've  told  you  mine?  "  reproachfully. 

"  Richard  Marcus." 

"  R!     Got  some  pluck,  'aven't  you,  Sonny  Richard  Marcus?  " 

And  amusement  twinkled  in  Richard's  deep-set  eyes,  as  he 
reflected  on  the  quality  of  pluck  needful  under  bomb-fire  by 
a  person  out  for  the  express  purpose  of  drowning  himself. 

"Ever  heard  the  comic  story  of  the  servant  who  had  never 
seen  the  sea?  "  he  replied  with  seeming  irrelevance,  but  think- 
ing how  the  tide  had  temporarily  baulked  his  intentions. 
"  She  was  so  dead  keen  on  seeing  it  that  she  stole  her  mistress' 
jewels  to  pay  for  the  fare  to  Southend  —  and  then  they  arrested 
her  while  she  was  waiting  for  the  tide  to  come  up." 

"  Fair  did  'er  in !  "  commented  Corporal  Plunkett,  laughing 
weakly.     "  Less  row  now,  ain't  it?  " 

"  Some  of  our  chaps  gone  up,  I  should  say.  Yes  —  listen !  " 
as  a  succession  of  quick  staccato  bangs  were  knocked  out 
directly  overhead,  then  echoed  a  little  farther  off. 

The  Corporal  subsided,  crouching  his  dazed  tormented  head 
deep  into  his  arms.  And  Richard,  with  his  hands  clasped 
round  his  knees,  waited  through  the  ensuing  drawn-out  silence 
for  the  distant  inland   throb  which  would  easily  mean   the 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  395 

return  of  the  first  batch  of  raiders  from  London.  He  longed 
with  eagerness  for  tlie  renewed  sound  of  gun-firing;  it  definitely 
slaked  a  thirst  in  him  that  had  craved  for  such  satisfaction 
for  three  years.  Well  —  he  had  not  been  able  to  go  to  the 
war,  but  a  little  bit  of  the  war  had  come  to  him.  .  .  .  God  was 
—  not  so  bad,  after  all!     He  was  happy,  sitting  there  waiting. 

"There  they  are!  "  And  at  the  same  moment  he  felt  a 
warm  trickle  down  his  neck.  "  Cheerio !  wounded  in  action !  " 
That  bit  of  shrapnel  which  had  scraped  so  close  to  his  ear,  must 
have  scraped  closer  than  he  had  noticed  at  the  time. 

"  Yes,  there  they  are  —  with  a  vengeance !  " 

...  In  the  subsequent  transformation  of  earth,  sky,  air 
and  water  into  sheer  noise,  he  faintly  heard  his  comrade  ejacu- 
lating "  Hell "  between  intervals  of  violent  sickness.  He 
thrust  a  stealthy  hand  into  the  aperture;  it  was  grabbed  and 
twisted  by  wet  chilly  fingers. 

"It's  all  right,  y'know,"  said  Richard  gruffly.  "Quite  all 
right " 

The  last  Gotha  was  chased  from  the  mouth  of  the  Thames 
out  to  sea.     The  last  mutter  of  guns  died  away. 

"  I  daresay  it's  h'over  now."  Plunkett  emerged  cautiously 
into  the  moonlight  some  ten  minutes  later.  "  May  as  well  get 
'ome,"  and  he  staggered  to  his  feet.  "The  Missus  '11  be 
wondering." 

"You  think  it  is  all  over?  "  Richard  was  reluctant  to  be- 
lieve it.  That  one  nerve  in  him  was  still  twanging  irritably 
for  the  relief  of  gun-fire. 

The  Corporal  nodded.  "  It'll  be  'alf-an-'our  or  more  afore 
they  give  the  signal.     Can't  wait  for  that.     You  comin'?  " 

"  Where?  Back  to  Leigh?  —  No,  not  for  the  moment.  Can 
you  get  along  by  yourself?     It  isn't  far." 

"  Fit  as  a  fiddle,"  the  other  declared.  He  held  out  his  hand 
to  Richard  — "  Thank  yer.  Sonny.  .  .  ." 

The  boy  blurted  out,  at  a  reminding  prick  of  the  old  goad: 
"  I  was  born  in  Germany,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

Corporal  Plunkett,  M.  M.,  was  astonished  at  the  inconsequent 
confession  .  .  .  some   divine   impulse   prompted   him   to   the 


396  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

speech  that  healed.     "Lord,  sir  —  that  don't  matter.     You're 
one  of  us  all  right!  " 

m 

.  .  .  The  obsession  was  lifted.  Corporal  Plunkett  had  done 
it.  Corporal  Plunkett  had  atoned  for  Mr.  Gryce.  Never  again 
would  Richard  turn  hot  and  miserable  at  the  mention  of  Ger- 
man frightfulness  ...  he  had  no  connection  with  the  things 
the  Germans  did.  Bom  in  Germany,  yes,  but  — "  You're  one 
of  us  all  right,"  the  cockney  soldier  had  said.  The  awful 
crazed  obsession  of  responsibility  was  rolled  away;  and  in 
utt«r  thankfulness  Richard  lay  on  the  sea-wall  that  first  night 
of  the  September  air-raids,  half-dreaming,  content  to  have 
heard  the  guns,  content.  .  .  . 

He  was  not  going  to  drown  himself.  Suicide  was  surrender 
without  a  fighting  chance.  Richard's  sturdier  business  instinct 
rejected  the  proposition.  Suicide  was  stupid  —  a  refuge  for 
weaklings  and  decadents  —  he  could  wrench  out  better  terms 
for  himself.  Now  that  his  spirit  was  fixed  for  one  land  and 
one  people,  the  fact  of  continued  official  ostracism  hardly 
counted.  He  would  have  to  submit  to  that  as  to  a  fact  and 
a  nuisance,  but  in  no  way  vital.  .  .  .  Internment?  That  also 
was  only  official  — "  I'll  just  have  to  get  through  with  it." 
Richard  scowled  healthily  at  the  annoying  prospect. 

But  he  was  out  of  No  Man's  Land  at  last  ...  it  had  been 
dreary  fog-sodden  territory,  and  he  was  glad,  a  thousand  times 
glad  to  be  qyit  of  it.  Not  once  again  need  he  set  foot  there; 
his  love  of  England  was  sanctuary.  He  would  love  England, 
not  as  before,  in  exacting  casual  certainty,  but  with  the  fierce 
beating  love  of  a  man  for  the  woman  who  has  no  love  for  him, 
who  will  never  return  his  love.  He  would  love  England  in 
spite  of  herself,  and  with  a  love  steadily  cognizant  of  its  own 
hopelessness.  And  he  thought  of  fireside  happiness  where 
passion  was  mutual  and  easy  .  .  .  and  rejoiced,  in  new-found 
defiance,  that  his  body  should  stand  outside,  pressed  against 
hard  rains  and  hard  storms  and  hard  swerve  of  the  hills. 

"  But  I'll  make  her  take  me  somehow  —  in  the  end " 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  397 

A  man  must  have  a  country  to  call  his  own.  To  know  his 
own.  So  much  the  war  had  taught  him.  Other  lessons  it 
might  have  held  for  others;  but  for  him  this  special  groping 
agony  of  nowhere  belonging. 

Internationalism  .  .  .  brotherhood  .  .  .  that  was  all  very 
well !  men  had  hailed  it,  and  believed  in  it ;  had  let  the  careful 
drawing  of  boundary  be  slurred;  had  forgotten  to  set  stern 
limits  to  their  sense  of  humanity  .  .  .  had  merged  the  sig- 
nificance of  birthplace  to  freer,  more  casual  interpretation: 
The  world  is  my  birthplace.  .  .  .  Men  had  wandered,  drifted, 
flung  themselves  down  in  alien  places.  Why  not?  The  sub- 
conscious trust  in  the  brotherhood  of  nations  had  urged  them 
to  such  courses. 

And  Internationalism  had  failed  them.  Each  country  was 
tightly  puckered  again  to  self-sufl5ciency.  Internationalism 
had  no  country  to  give  her  devotees  during  the  European 
war.  No  country  but  No  Man's  Land  .  .  .  desolate  sodden 
track  without  end  or  beginning,  neither  land  nor  sea  ...  to 
Richard,  almost  asleep,  came  a  vision  of  the  estuary  echoed 
omewhere  in  space  and  in  deeper  shadow  .  .  .  greyer  fog  .  .  . 
shapes  stumbling  about  it,  hunting  for  cover,  some  wailing 
loudly,  some  silent  and  bewildered.  .  .  .  He  was  himself  a 
wraith,  one  of  the  betrayed  .  .  .  and  there  were  others  vaguely 
familiar.  .  .  . 

Voices  calling,  and  receiving  no  answer,  calling  again  and 
again  .  .  .  red-cheeked  waiters,  vaguely  seen  in  pre-war  days, 
vaguely  disappeared  after  1914  —  they  were  all  here,  paler 
now.  .  .  .  And  here  the  cobbler  to  whom  Richard  had  given 
Aunt  Stella's  shoes  .  .  .  and  Trudchen  and  her  sister  Anna, 
seeking  each  other,  missing  each  other.  .  .  Otto  Rothenburg 
squealing  loudly  that  he  was  British.  .  .  .  And  now  Richard, 
in  his  travellings,  bumped  up  against  Gottlieb  Schnabel,  who 
shrank  from  him  and  shrank  away  into  the  murky  gloom  .  .  . 
and  turned  into  Captain  Dreyfus — "I  wonder  why?  "  That 
legendary  soldier  who  had  killed  his  own  brother  on  the  op- 
posite side  —  he  was  native  of  No  Man's  Land;  and  his  brother, 
the  sticky  brown  gouts  dripping  from  both  his  shot  arms  — 


398  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

And:  "You  here  too?"  said  Thomas  Spalding  to  Richard, 
and  held  out  a  hand.  ...  A  cloud  of  fog  seemed  to  roll  be- 
tween them.  .  .  .  Thomas  Spalding  was  lost  again. 

Children  of  No  Man's  Land  —  of  Denmark  and  Norway  and 
Sweden  and  Spain  and  Holland,  entangled  haphazard  in  one 
belligerent  country  or  another,  condemned  haphazard  as  pro- 
German,  pro-English.  .  .  .  Their  bewildered  avowals  disbe- 
lieved and  mocked.  .  .  .  "Who  are  the  neutrals?  there  are 
no  neutrals  —  the  world  is  at  war.  .  .  ."  Born  in  one  place, 
reared  in  another,  married  in  a  third  — "  which  is  your  coun- 
try? "  No  Man's  Land  is  their  country  ...  we  shall  meet 
them  in  No  Man's  Land.  ..."  An  artist  has  no  country  " — 
artists  without  nvunber  groping  their  way  through  No  Man's 
Land,  thinking  they  are  walking  straight  ahead  and  out  of  it, 
not  knowing  that  in  the  darkness  and  the  smiting  din  they  are 
walking  round  and  round  in  circles.  .  .  . 

"  I  have  no  son!  "  voice  sombre  and  deep  from  the  shadows; 
a  proud  old  man,  this,  naturalized  English,  hating  Germany, 
eighteen-forty-eight  refugee.  .  .  .  He  sent  his  son  to  be  killed 
at  Gallipoli,  and  now  they  are  interrogating  his  loyalty  — 
"Have  you  a  son  at  the  Front?  "  "I  have  no  son!  "  He 
will  be  accepted  at  his  own  word  and  valuation,  or  not  at  all. 
The  dead  boy  is  too  dear  to  stand  for  mere  pledge  and  se- 
curity. .  .  . 

Little  distracted  figures  plunging  hither  and  thither,  some 
of  them  frantically  waving  a  sheet  of  paper  — "  Look  — 
Look,"  but  there  is  no  escape  from  No  Man's  Land  by 
naturalization  ...  in  despair  the  papers  are  thrown  away  — 
flutter  whitely  in  the  gloom  "  like  a  paper-chase,"  Richard 
thinks. 

He  is  hunting  for  David,  in  frantic  need  of  comradeship. 
"  Is  it  you?  Or  you?  "  thrusting  away  each  white  distorted 
face  as  it  looms  towards  him.  But  David  is  not  here  —  David 
was  once  of  No  Man's  Land,  but  now  no  more.  .  .  .  Zion  has 
him,  wholly  and  completely.  David  is  a  Jew,  and  the  Jews 
have  been  granted  a  cause  and  a  kingdom.  ...  Of  no  avail 
to  seek  for  David  in  these  grey  spectral  fogs.    The  noise  is 


DEBATABLE   GROUND  399 

louder  and  louder  —  no  definite  sound,  but  an  intensified  cos- 
mic thudding  which  can  be  heard  when  body  and  soul  are 
alone  and  listening.  .  .  .  Richard  is  aware  of  loneliness 
drenching  him  like  vast  breakers  —  must  he  stay  here  for  ever? 
"  Lord,  sir  —  that  don't  matter  .  .  .  you're  one  of  us  all 
right!  "  It  is  Corporal  Plunkett's  voice  which  bursts  the 
nightmare  vision  .  .  .  and  drags  him  back  to  the  sea-wall  by 
the  estuary.  .  .  . 

One  day  men  would  dare  to  weinder  again,  and  dare  to  pitch 
their  tents  in  strange  places  .  .  .  but  not  those  who  had  once 
been  victims;  not  Richard  Marcus,  nor  his  sons,  nor  his  sons' 
sons,  he  vowed  grimly.  .  .  . 

And  with  that  came  the  idea  to  dig  himself  in.  And  with 
the  idea,  determination. 

He  would  marry  —  Molly,  perhaps.  ...  A  sort  of  quick 
ripple  seemed  to  pass  over  the  world  when  he  thought  of 
Molly  and  of  his  savage  outburst  with  her  in  the  orchard.  He 
would  marry  her  —  as  he  had  said  then,  whether  she  liked  it 
or  not  —  and  their  son  should  be  born  in  England,  brought  up 
in  England,  owning  land  in  England;  he  should  be  reared 
to  no  ideas  that  were  not  purely  insular;  and  he  in  his  turn 
should  marry  an  English  girl,  and  their  son  —  would  he  be 
enough  Englishman,  yet  to  be  allowed  to  tolerate  foreigners? 
Or  must  that  safer,  easier  attitude  wait  for  the  son  of  his  son's 
son?  How  many  generations  did  it  take  to  plant  a  man 
securely,  son  of  the  soil? 

Retrogressive,  all  this.  The  result  of  the  war.  Who  could 
afford,  after  such  drastic  teaching,  again  to  omit  patriotism 
from  fundamental  need? 

Richard  began  to  muse  on  just  how  fundamental  was  the 
need;  and  how  much  slapped  on  from  the  surface,  by  sugges- 
tion? What  was  patriotism?  He  had  first  asked  himself 
this  on  a  certain  evening  of  shock,  three  years  ago;  and  had 
since  only  succeeded  in  discovering,  very  thoroughly,  what  was 
the  lack  of  it. 

Sense  of  property,  to  start  with  .  .  .  but  that  presupposed 


400  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

actual  ownership;  that  a  farmer,  a  landed  proprietor,  was 
more  directly  inspired  to  fight  for  England,  than  —  oh,  than 
cockney  Corporal  Plunkett,  who  was  probably  serving  in  a 
shop  before  the  call  came. 

Birthplace,  then? — But  Richard  himself  could  answer  the 
question  of  how  much  that  mattered  to  the  soul.  .  .  .  The 
law  was  surely  overstressing  topography.  .  .  .  The  law  was 
polishing  a  hollow  shell  of  sentimentality.  David  — David  was 
nearer  truth  when  he  defined  patriotism  as  the  sense  of  family: 
son  of  our  house;  thence  to  local  fanaticism:  sons  of  our 
village  —  and  sons  of  our  country,  which  was  patriotism  .  .  . 
but  it  must  stop  there.  .  .  .  Sons  of  our  five  continents  .  .  . 
it  sounded  chilly,  expanded  so  far.  Internationalism  again  — 
Richard  denying  it,  yet  could  not  prevent  thought  from  crash- 
ing up  against  it  from  time  to  time.  .  .  .  One  day,  yes  —  but 
the  soul  must  first  catch  cold  in  the  pursuit  of  it. 

What  was  patriotism?  unity  of  pride  in  the  nation's  slow- 
born  history  and  tradition?  Impetus  of  divine  fury  which 
springs  from  sanctuary  violated?  .  .  .  He  remembered  his 
rage  as  the  Gothas  headed  their  insolent  course  straight  up 
the  Thames  — "  My  Thames  "...  he  looked  down  the  es- 
tuary towards  the  sea  .  .  .  loving  it  .  .  .  looked  up  the  river 
past  Benfleet  .  .  .  good  British  name  that,  pungent  with  jolly 
naval  tradition  .  .  .  his  inward  sight  followed  the  dwindling 
stream  through  London,  a  draped  lady  stepping  delicately 
beneath  crossed  blades  of  silver,  searchlights  that  protected 
her  .  .  .  and  still  farther  up  lay  the  Thames  valley,  noon- 
tide of  green  and  gold  drowsing  gardens,  and  the  glory  of 
ancient  woods.  .  .  .  "My  Thames!  " 

Suddenly  Richard  flung  back  his  head  and  laughed,  heartily 
and  with  no  trace  of  bitterness,  at  the  mere  idea  that  he  could 
love  it  less  because  his  mother  happened  to  be  somewhere 
else  than  here  at  the  hour  of  his  birth.  It  was  —  so  entirely 
ridiculous!  Screaming  little  red-faced  atom  .  .  .  what  pos- 
sible difference  could  it  make  to  him,  sucking  at  his  bottle, 
if  Hun-land  or  home-land  were  beyond  the  windows?  .  .  . 
A  world  constructed  on  the  arbitrary  basis  that  each  person 


DEBATABLE  GROUND  401 

must  be  screwed  down  solemnly  and  with  ritual,  in  residence 
and  in  feeling,  to  the  consecrated  spot  in  which  he  was  bom, 
was  really  not  unlike  a  Gilbert  and  Sullivan  opera. 

Of  course  there  was  the  old  argument  of  "  blood  tells." 
Did  it?  His  sudden  rushing  worship  of  the  river-god  dis- 
proved the  argument  wholly.  For  if  he  were  no  individual 
person,  but  the  compound  of  his  ancestors'  emotions,  the 
Thames  would  bore  him,  and  the  thought  of  the  Rhine  stir 
him  to  unutterable  paeans. 

Thus  Richard  —  he  not  knowing  how  a  little  shy  German 
boy  had  once  crossed  to  England,  and  worn  a  blazer,  and 
sculled  in  a  queer  ecstasy  from  Bray  to  Cookham.  Richard's 
love  of  the  Thames  was  a  heritage  from  Ferdie.  .  .  . 

"  I  can't  get  hold  of  it  —  quite "  the  boy  decided  at 

last,  abandoning  his  question  for  patriotism  defined.     "  But 

it's   there "     There,   elusively,   tormentingly   woven   into 

the  fabric  itself;  distinct  from  patriotism  exploited,  talked 
about,  and  sung  about,  and  worked  up  into  posters  and  pic- 
tures .  .  .  till  it  tasted  like  wood  in  the  mouth.  "  Can't  a  man 
serve  his  land  unquestioningly,  without  all  this  cant?  "  But 
no  emotion  could  be  left  deep-hid  and  dimly  private  —  not 
love  of  art,  nor  love  of  child,  nor  love  of  man  for  woman  .  .  . 
patriotism  must  be  thumbed  with  the  rest,  till  its  name  was 
Jingoism.  "  A  patriot  for  lost  causes,  and  a  Jingo  after  vic- 
tory—  that's  the  difference.  .  .  ."  Had  David  said  so?  It 
sounded  like  David.  .  .  .  Richard  had  not  quite  realized  as 
yet  how  awakened  by  circumstances  was  his  own  powerful, 
slow-moving  brain. 

The  suck  of  water  startlingly  near.  .  .  .  He  raised  himself 
on  one  elbow,  then  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  saw  the  tide  was  up, 
flowing  in  clear,  liuninous  black  over  the  marshes,  oozing 
greedily  into  each  hole  and  inlet,  lapping  at  the  very  foot  of 
the  sea-wall.  The  bump  of  lifted  boats  was  audible  in  the 
moonless  night. 

Richard  reflected,  not  without  humour,  that  the  sea  had 
emerged  from  obscurity  rather  too  late  to  be  of  any  practical 
value  —  to  him. 


402  DEBATABLE   GROUND 

He  looked  at  his  watch  —  ten  minutes  after  midnight.     Then 

—  he  was  eighteen  to-day!  .  .  .  and  the  dreaded  evening  would 
see  him  in  prison  — "  Rum  sort  of  birthday !  " —  But  horror 
had  all  been  drained  out  of  the  coming  ordeal,  leaving  it,  well 

—  a  nuisance,  nothing  more  odious  nor  festering.  A  con- 
founded nuisance  —  but  inevitable;  neither  the  fault  of  those 
interned  nor  of  those  who  interned  them;  just  a  happening 
out  of  greater  happenings. 

The  last  London  train  from  Leigh  would  have  gone  by  now; 
he  might  catch  an  early  morning  workmen's  train.  He  did  not 
want  to  go  back  to  the  Dunnes  —  grimaced  slightly  at  the  mere 
idea  of  encounter,  with  his  burst  of  madness  so  very  recent  in 
their  minds.  Why  —  he  had  come  rushing  oui  minus  even  his 
cap;  they  could  pack  his  bag  and  send  it  up  to  Montagu 
Hall  .  .  .  not  that  he  would  need  anything  much  for  the  next 
year  or  two  ...  or  for  however  long  this  dreary  war  was 
going  to  last. 

And  after  the  war ? 

"  Let  'em  go  back  to  their  own  country  —  we  don't  want  'em 
here."  But,  "This  is  my  country.  .  .  ."  Richard  stood  on 
the  sea-wall,  an  obstinate  figure,  black  against  the  dim  flat 
wash  of  water.  He  was  smiling  a  little  ironically  at  the  thought 
of  Mr.  Gryce  .  .  .  voice  creaking  in  the  hall  as  he  came  in: 
"  Intern  'em  all !  " —  and  how  he  would  exult  in  hearing 
the  next  day  that  one  more  enemy  alien  had  indeed  been 
interned!  ... 

Suddenly,  and  with  an  unexpected  tearing  at  the  heart, 
three  long-drawn-out  hoots  of  the  siren  shrieked  across  the 
swamp,  a  pause  between  each,  as  though  the  deliverer  were 
holding  his  breath.  Then,  all  along  the  English  coast,  the 
pent-up  tension  relaxed,  and  "  We  can  go*  to  bed,"  said  the 
English  people.     "  That's  the  All  Clear!  " 

.  .  .  The  boy  threw  himself  full  length  on  the  coarse  grass; 
lay  with  bare  head  pillowed  on  his  arm;  the  same  faint  smile 
still  twisting  his  underlip: 

*'  May  as  well  get  some  sleep  now,"  said  Richard, 

THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


4/ 


JUL  1  8  1951  i 


Form  L9-25m-8,'46(9852)444 


THE  LIBRARY 


PR 
6037 

stern  - 

S839d9 

Debatable 
ground. 

l/\       / 

\77  ' 

V   \J 

lyW/  vy 

A  000  564  788 


PR 

6037 

S839de 


